Under the Wild Oak [2/4]
Part One
“And that’s the earliest you can take us? You’ve absolutely nothing open first thing in the morning?”
“No, Merlin, I’m sorry,” Ewan sighs into the phone, weary and slightly exasperated, and Merlin feels a twinge of guilt. He normally avoids calling doctors in their off-hours, knowing from experience how few and far-between uninterrupted breaks from work actually are; still, this is important -- this is Arthur, and Merlin’s always had a tendency to bend the rules for him.
Ewan continues, “Look, I wish I could do better for you, really, but my morning’s been booked with appointments for months, and I’m already going to be cancelling a department meeting to fit you in. So there’s really noth --”
“Yeah, no, I get it. It’s fine, really,” Merlin says, scrubbing the hand not holding the phone through his hair. It isn’t fine, but there’s nothing more he can do, and it’ll do none of them any favours for him to be angry with Ewan for simply trying to do his job.
After a bit of a pause, Ewan clears his throat. “So, uh. Keep an eye on him for the rest of the night and call me if anything immediate happens, yeah? And otherwise, I’ll see you both tomorrow at 3:00?”
“Yes, definitely. See you then, Ewan, and thanks again.” His mobile clicks softly when he flips it shut, ending the call with a sigh. The appointment time isn’t ideal -- he’d much prefer something earlier, something that would mean he wouldn’t spend the whole day worried out of his mind over what this means for Arthur, for his treatment options and prognosis. In this case, though, he’ll have to take what he can get; Ewan’s a fantastic doctor, one of the best in his field, and working with low appointment availability is a consequence of seeing someone with that reputation.
Merlin sets the phone on the counter and picks up the mug of tea he had been drinking before finally getting through to Ewan. It’s cooled off by now, and he grimaces after the first sip. There’s really no sense in forcing it down, not when its aftertaste is making him sort of nauseous, so he pours it into the sink instead. Washing the cup and placing it on the rack to dry takes all of a minute, maybe two, and then he’s grabbing his mobile and heading back upstairs to join Arthur in bed.
When he reaches their room, Arthur is already half-asleep. He’s curled up with his back to Merlin’s side of the bed, the blankets pulled up around him and tucked under his chin. Merlin takes a minute to raise the thermostat using the control panel in the corridor, setting the heat up a bit higher; the last thing he needs now is for Arthur to get sick.
Walking into the room, he sees that Arthur has left his bedside lamp on for Merlin to see by. It’s probably what’s keeping Arthur from falling asleep fully, but he’s always been the one to leave a small light on in efforts to combat Merlin’s clumsiness in the dark. It rarely ever works -- even the smallest of shadows are able to trip Merlin up, it seems -- but it’s sweet, the way Arthur’s protective streak comes out almost reflexively.
True to form, though, the dim light from the lamp doesn’t stop Merlin from stubbing his toe on the dresser twice and almost losing his balance when his right foot gets tangled in the leg of his trousers. Eventually, he manages to strip down to his pants and throw on an undershirt, then kick his dirty clothes in the general direction of the hamper to be dealt with properly tomorrow. He flips off the light using the wall switch and pads carefully back to his side of the bed, hands outstretched and groping in front of him, searching for the edge of the mattress before he simply collides with it.
Merlin slips under the covers easily, rolling over so that he’s pressed flush against Arthur, chest to back. His left arm curls up and tucks under his pillow, and his right arm wraps immediately, naturally, around Arthur’s waist, pulling him closer.
Arthur shifts a little, mumbles, “What’s up?”
His voice is sleepy and a tiny bit slurred, and Merlin smiles against the back of Arthur’s neck. He says, “We have an appointment with Ewan tomorrow afternoon. At three.”
“Okay,” Arthur sighs. Then, so quiet Merlin almost can’t hear him, “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Merlin says, and it’s slightly shaky for reasons he doesn’t want to think at present. He kisses the back of Arthur’s neck softly, feels Arthur relax impossibly more against him, and repeats, “Yeah. Everything’s -- I’m fine.”
Arthur hums quietly in acknowledgment, and in a few minutes, Merlin hears his breath even out as he falls asleep. He’s warm and pliant in Merlin’s arms, just as he has been for countless nights before this one. For some reason, however, Merlin can’t help but feel that something’s different; changed, somehow, by what he learned tonight.
It’s not really seeing the tumour have yet another effect on Arthur. As much as it hurts to think of, Merlin has been steadily watching Arthur grow sicker for two years now. He’s still Arthur, still intelligent and passionate and fiercely defensive of what he loves, but it’s almost as if he’s been reduced, quieted. Ironically, it’s the intense anger Arthur had shown earlier tonight that threw into Merlin’s face just how much about Arthur has shifted, and it’s a frightening revelation.
Merlin has a sudden flash of memory, an image of Arthur from just after they started dating, back when it was more convenience and lust than affection and love. He had been so young, then -- they both had, but Arthur had been more noticeably different, and oh, Merlin can remember him: blond fringe falling into his eyes and curling around his ears, cheeks flushed in perfect match with his red T-shirt, mouth open and laughing as he ran ahead of Merlin in the park. Arthur hasn’t been so carefree, so unrepentantly vibrant, since before he fell ill, and Merlin’s chest tightens at the thought of it.
He feels almost guilty for thinking that, for getting so worked up over missing Arthur when Arthur’s still here, curled up warm and lazy against Merlin. But at the same time, everything that’s happened tonight, from the scare earlier in the tub to the memory Merlin’s just had -- it’s made everything suddenly realer, more intense and more of an immediate threat than it has been in months. And even as Merlin holds Arthur now, feels the tickle of his hair and the heat of his skin and the rise-and-fall motion of his chest, it’s like Arthur is slipping away, like Merlin is losing him still, no matter what they do to stop it.
There’s no way to deny that Merlin’s breaths are incredibly shaky now, and his eyes are burning and moist-feeling. He hears Arthur hum again, just a bit, and when Arthur shifts against him, Merlin realises that the arm he’s thrown over Arthur’s waist has tightened to the point where it must be painful, even in sleep. Slowly, trying not to wake Arthur, Merlin pulls away and climbs out of bed. He stumbles his way out of the room and into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind him. He’d forgot that he’d left the staircase light on, and it’s now harsh and bright to his unadjusted eyes, forcing Merlin to see his hands shaking as he slides down the wall.
For the first time in a long while, probably since those exceptionally difficult months after Arthur initially got sick, Merlin lets himself cry.
One afternoon, the traveller meets another person for the first time in as long as he can remember.
It’s another hot day, and the traveller is walking, because the traveller is always walking, his world just one foot in front of the other in front of the other and eyes ahead and focussed and watch for rocks or potholes or puddles or animals or slopes or anything not smooth and solid dirt. He likes it that way, simple and steady, the sound of his feet a repetitive beat from a repetitive motion in a repetitive day. It’s constant, sure to not disappoint him or trip him up, and he enjoys that.
So the traveller is walking, left foot right foot left foot right foot repeat repeat repeat, and his footfalls are, as always, the only sound he hears, until they’re not. Because from behind him, unexpectedly, comes a voice: “Finish it.”
It’s barely audible, but it’s different, unexpected, and enough to make the traveller stop instantly. Slowly, he turns around (something he hasn’t done in ages, so many days of forward forward forward that he has almost forgot what it is to look back).
About ten paces behind him, in the middle of the dirt road, stands a man. He is thin, but carries himself with the stance and poise of someone who was once larger, less skin-and-bones and more muscle. His hair is blond and cropped short, his skin pale. He wears a woollen, chocolate brown coat, and a scarf of alternating red and gold stripes is draped around his neck. His eyes -- the traveller is too far away to see the colour of his eyes, but even from here, he can see that they look compassionate, even friendly.
“Finish it,” the man says again, voice soft but firm, expectant, and the traveller doesn’t know what he means, but wants to, wants so desperately to please this man.
The traveller has a moment to register this, another to open his mouth to ask the man who he is, and then the man is gone, vanished like he was never there.
An hour later, Merlin finds himself back in the kitchen. He is unable to fall asleep, and he’s tried, tried sliding back into bed next to Arthur, but after forty minutes of staring at where the ceiling would be could he see it properly, he’s realised that attempting to sleep will likely be, for him, a totally unproductive undertaking tonight. So he’s come back downstairs, not necessarily because he thinks this will be a better use of his time, but because Arthur needs the rest even if Merlin can’t find any, and Merlin’s not going to risk waking him by shifting around in the bed all night.
Merlin’s made himself another cup of tea -- peppermint, this time -- and he’s meandering aimlessly through their brownstone’s first level. This pacing won’t tire him out, but it’ll give him some way to distract his mind, the even repetition of step sip step swallow step sip step swallow enough to make him not think.
As he walks by the foyer, though, he notices something on the decorative table they keep there. The table has no purpose other than their general dump ground, and while it was probably intended to display flower arrangements or picture frames or miniature Zen gardens, it instead serves only as a place to leave coats, hats, gloves, packages, keys -- pretty much anything not absolutely necessary after walking in the front door. Tonight, Merlin sees, resting on top of the pile of his and Arthur’s coats and scarves, a leather-covered book: Arthur’s manuscript, left there in the rush to get Arthur upstairs and into a bath.
Merlin walks over to the table and, with the hand not holding his tea, picks up the book. It’s still heavy, although not quite as cold as it felt in the park, and when he holds it up closer, Merlin can smell the pungent odour of the leather binding. Figuring he might as well -- Arthur had said he could, and it’s not like he has anything better to do -- Merlin heads into the den, where he settles down onto their overly-plush couch and switches on the goose-necked reading lamp next to it. The book rests awkwardly on his thighs, leather starting to stick to his skin, as he finishes his tea and places the mug on the floor.
The front page, when he finally finishes rearranging himself on the couch and opens the book to read, says only Under the Wild Oak. The title is written, like the rest of the book, in Arthur’s almost-calligraphic script, letters spiking and swirling into each other with a grace Merlin has always admired. He’s not entirely sure why Arthur chose to handwrite his manuscript --probably a combination of Arthur’s admiration for the old arts and his eagerness to use the one-of-a-kind fountain pen bought for him by his father (a ridiculously expensive way of making up for the rather disastrous argument that had occurred after Arthur decided to leave his father’s company to write a book). In any case, it’s lovely to look at, and Merlin smiles a tiny bit as he flips to the page headed “Chapter One” and begins to read.
Albion is being torn apart . . .
Albion is being torn apart. Once peaceful, it is now consumed by a war that licks and spreads across it like fire, alliances and boundaries disappearing like ashes in the wind. New rebellions, noble and common alike, ignite each day, fierce and frequent as they haven’t been since Uther Pendragon’s ban on magic was first instated, long before Arthur’s now-disappearing unification settled in.
And at the centre of it all, Arthur’s kingdom and stronghold: Camelot itself, smouldering with discontent and flagging loyalty. With revolts have come famine -- a result of farmers spending more time fighting each other for land than actually working what they already have -- and the cities have suffered from this worst of all. People are starving, diseases carried from battlefield to town are beginning to spread, and unhappiness rages as strongly within the limits of Camelot as greed does in the surrounding countryside. Arthur’s control is slipping, just shy of extinguished, and all of Albion knows it.
None of this is helped, of course, by the siege Camelot is currently under. The city is surrounded, cut off from trade routes and new supplies, and it’s only a matter of time before the last loyal centre of Arthur’s once-great empire surrenders itself.
Personally, Morgan le Fay couldn’t be more pleased by the way everything has panned out. She has not been directly responsible for every bit of steady degradation, every chip at the foundation of Arthur’s reign and the Pendragon family’s authority; but she has foreseen key parts of it and done nothing to stop them, even on the days where she almost forgave Arthur for Uther’s betrayal, and she considers this as good as instigating everything herself.
Most days, Morgan exits her tent and walks through her (Mordred’s, really, but he answers to her) troops’ encampments outside walls of Camelot. She looks at the turrets of the castle where she once lived, and she can see the cracks and signs of weather in them from here; she breathes in air that she remembers as sweet and refreshing, and she can taste only smoke that stings the back of her throat. She takes all of this in, the twisted beauty of Camelot on the verge of falling, and she is pleased.
Most nights, Morgan stays secluded in her tent, receiving only Mordred as a visitor, and then only when she summons for him. She scries using a heavy stone basin filled with water, takes a perverse sort of pleasure in watching the rest of Albion drive itself further and further into its own descent. For every new rebellion, she scoops ashes onto her fingers and smears them, thick and grey and dusty, over the map of Albion spread out on her table. She watches Arthur’s territories pull away from him, marks their steady progress and smiles a little more for every night she falls asleep with her fingers looking dirty and charred.
The lifeblood of Arthur’s empire is draining away, its king helpless to staunch the flow, and Morgan finds it glorious.
***
Myrddin finds Arthur at the top of the castle’s northernmost tower. He is leaning against a parapet, elbows pressed into rough stone and shoulders hunched up around his neck as he surveys his kingdom. It’s not exactly a sad sight, but it is a disconcerting one; Arthur doesn’t look broken -- he’s too proud, too stubborn, for that -- but he does, for one of the few times in all the years Myrddin has known him, look exhausted. When Myrddin steps up beside him, he can see that Arthur’s face reflects this same weariness, something etched so deeply into the lines of his skin and posture that it’s become inseparable.
Myrddin thinks this -- seeing Arthur look, for once in his life, every bit his age, every bit of worry and stress he has experienced as king -- is far worse than seeing Arthur broken could ever be.
He doesn’t say as much, though, just leans on the wall right next to Arthur, close enough that their shoulders rest against each other, however slightly. It’s a silent support, and he knows that Arthur appreciates it every bit as much as he knows that Arthur will never say so.
Arthur doesn’t say anything for a long while, actually, statements of appreciation or not, but Myrddin has come to expect that of him. As loud and out-spoken (obnoxious, even, although only Myrddin could ever say so and go unpunished) as he was in his youth, Arthur grown is a wiser person in many ways, speech being only one of them. He has learned the value of words, that while they may not carry the same immediate power Myrddin’s favoured language of old does, they are still something to be feared, to be chosen and employed carefully and only to one’s advantage. Myrddin is proud of him for this, but there are still times when he misses the easy conversation he and Arthur used to have.
He’s cut off in his pondering by Arthur finally speaking up.
“She is certainly making things difficult, isn’t she?”
Myrddin would laugh at Arthur’s route of pointing out the obvious, except he knows that, despite his sarcasm, that’s not what Arthur really wants him to do. “Yes,” he says instead.
“Any updates on our status? Food, weapons, men -- you know?”
“As much as I hate to be the bearer of bad news, no. Food stores are just as low as they were before. Weapons are the same, although I have spent the last few days reapplying the wards to them, so that should help a bit if you ever get to a battle. But we’d need a proper army for them to be of any real use, and that’s still short in coming with so much of the country fighting itself instead of behind us.”
Arthur sighs and brings a hand up to rub at his forehead. He is obviously weary, and Myrddin feels for him. The nights lately have been too ashy and hot with anticipation and the fires burning just beyond the castle walls to allow comfortable sleep, and they’re all exhausted.
“I feel like I’ve failed them, Myrddin. My people, my father, even Morgan.”
“Morgan’s the cause of this. Why would you feel as if you had failed her?”
“Because the Morgan I knew, before the fever and my father’s betrayal broke her -- she wouldn’t have wanted this to happen. Much as she may have hated being forced to live here at times, she did love this land, once, and she wouldn’t have wanted any harm to come to it, least of all from herself. If she could remember anything about this place but anger, she’d be ashamed of me for not having taken action already. She’d call me soft and foolish, blinded irrationally by something that’s nonexistent now, and gods, I would never hear the end of it, and she would be right.”
Myrddin shifts so that more of his weight, his support, is leaning against Arthur’s shoulder. “You can’t blame yourself, you know.”
Arthur’s voice sounds angry when he answers, although Myrddin thinks it’s more at Arthur himself than anything else. “But I can. As king, I am supposed to protect them, to stop things like this from happening, and I have failed in that, undeniably so. And all because I allowed myself to become too complacent in a peace I knew would never be anything more than brief.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being comfortable in peace, Arthur. That’s what it exists for, after all.”
At that, Arthur smiles a small bit, seemingly in spite of himself, and Myrrdin feels minutely accomplished.
“Of course, Myrddin. Great thing I have you here to remind me of the obvious.”
The moment of levity is just that, though: a moment, and far too quick at that. It passes, and Arthur sighs again, heavy and weary. He says, “I’m just not sure what to do anymore, if it would just be better for them to surrender myself to her.”
Here, Myrddin has to object. Arthur has learned the value of self-sacrifice over the course of his kingship, and that’s fantastic, but it seems to have been at the expense of knowing the value of himself to Camelot. And that, Myrddin just cannot have.
“It wouldn’t be. I can tell you right now that it wouldn’t be. You’ve said it yourself, Arthur: Morgan is here, doing all of this, because she’s angry. She’s bitter and vengeful and wronged, and in what world is it a good idea for the one sane leader with the ability to fix everything to step aside and allow the one who’s royally messed everything over to take control?”
“But --”
“But nothing, Arthur. You are the one who has to fix this, and you’re the only one who really can, because you’re the only one at this point who’s not fighting for just himself.”
“Even if I do find some way to defeat her, though, fixing everything she has wronged, restoring that peace -- it will take ages, Myrddin, far beyond what I have left to live. I will still fight for Camelot, until the day I die, but it doesn’t make sense for me to lead this battle anymore.”
And with that, Arthur has reached the crux of the matter, the problem has Myrddin has been struggling with for months as time slips away from him, and the reason he has come to see Arthur tonight. He takes a deep breath, hoping Arthur won’t maim him for sitting on this information for so long.
“I may have found a way around that, actually.”
Arthur whips his head around, eyes wide and disbelieving and a question already forming on his lips. Myrddin almost laughs at how Arthur is still dumbstruck by things like this, even when he should have learned long ago to always associate Myrddin with Doing the Impossible.
He saves Arthur the difficulty of asking and launches right into his explanation. “There are legends of a vessel, a cup, that grants whoever drinks from it eternal life.”
Arthur looks disbelieving again, but this time with a scornful undertone, as if he can’t see why Myrddin would dare to waste his time with such nonsense. “You’re referring to the Grail legends? This is your grand solution?”
“Yes, and don’t look so disdainful. I know that you think they’re foolish --”
“That’s one word for them, yes, and by far one of the nicest ones.”
“Would you shut up and let me finish?” Arthur rolls his eyes and makes a grand, sweeping gesture with his hand for Myrddin to continue, and oh, but Myrddin will be having words with him later. “I know you think they’re foolish, but they’re not. The Christians call it the Holy Grail, and their stories about it are a bit ridiculous, but it’s in the Old Religion, too. It’s called the Cup of Life there, and I’ve seen it, Arthur, I’ve used it before; I know for a fact it exists.”
“You’ve used it? When?”
“The first time the Questing Beast came. Ordinary magic can’t cure the Turning of Fate, Arthur, not even mine.”
“So why didn’t you take it then?”
“Because it was too inextricably linked to the Old Religion. Even trying to take it would have shattered the balance between magic and normal forces, and I don’t know what that would have done.”
“You say ‘was’ like something’s changed?” Arthur’s words make Myrddin relax a bit. Arthur is already intrigued by this, and it’s probably overtaking his scepticism on the subject, so Myrddin needn’t be quite so defensive with his answers, and that’s always a relief. He hasn’t had to prove anything serious to Arthur in a long time; he’d rather not start again now.
“I think it might have. I'm more powerful now, for one.” Arthur snorts at this, and Myrddin graciously chooses to ignore him. “Also, the fact that other religions use the same object now in their legends -- like Christianity and its Grail, as you said. I think that might be weakening the ties the Old Religion has on the Cup. It’s not the sole owner of that artefact anymore, and the other legends have changed to say people can remove it. Gaius said once that magic was a malleable, changing force, and it is, so there’s a possibility that the magic changed to match the legends. There’s actually a chance of being able to move the Cup, now.”
Arthur is still staring at Myrddin with slight disbelief, but Myrddin can see that Arthur wants to believe him, and that’s enough for what he needs.
“I also think I might know where it is. I want to go retrieve it.”
“No. Absolutely not.” The speed of Arthur’s reply would be comical if it weren’t the exact opposite of what Myrddin wants to hear.
“But if I know where it is and what it looks like, it only --”
“Then you can tell me, or write it down, or both, and I will send one of my knights to find it.”
“That’s ridiculous. You’re hard-pressed enough for manpower as it is, and you know he’d never make it through Morgan’s lines.”
“I’m hard-pressed enough for everything without having my most powerful advisor trotting around the countryside for something he may not find. No.”
“Arthur. I know where it is. I’ve been searching for leads in the legends and books for weeks now, and I’ve pieced the location together.”
“Oh, have you?”
And oh, if he wants to get snippy, Myrddin can play that right back. “Why do you think I waited so long to come to you with this? I know where it is, Arthur, and I’ll be able to get it. Trust me. Please.”
Arthur has turned back to looking over his city at this point, eyes surveying the battle-scarred earth and the fires that stand out like scattered pockmarks in the distance. His eyes are unreadable, but Myrddin knows that above all, Arthur will abide by what is best for his people, for Camelot. And even he, stubborn as he is, cannot deny that this chance to undermine the limitation of death, this very real possibility of victory, is what Camelot needs.
Myrddin’s not wrong in his assumption about Arthur, can’t be after knowing him for so long. And sure enough, the next thing Arthur says is: “Fine. You have a month to search and a month to return, and after that, I’m sending someone after you. And I want you to strengthen the wards on the castle and city before you go.”
The grin that Myrddin can feel spreading across his face in excitement is obnoxious, one a younger Arthur would have mocked him for endlessly. “Thank you,” he says, and settles in again next to Arthur in silent vigil for their land, shoulders brushing in warm alliance.
Merlin wakes the next morning (and he’s surprised to be doing that, actually; he’d been so sure last night would be another sleepless one) with an awful crick in his neck and the smell of coffee teasing at his nose. The first is to be expected -- he’s still young, but a night curled up in a chair isn’t good for anyone. The second, though, puzzles him a bit: he and Arthur both prefer tea in the morning, and Arthur has always loathed the taste of coffee, so there’s no reason he’d make some, unless --
“Where, exactly, in this disorganized mess you call a refrigerator is your cream?”
And ah, yes, that would be it. Morgana’s voice (piercing after a few nights of minimal sleep, although Merlin would never dare tell her that) echoes from the kitchen, and Merlin can hear the soft clang of bottles as she starts as she starts shifting things around in her search, not bothering to wait for an answer.
“Stop, stop!” Merlin hears Arthur say, huffy and impatient in that way he always is with Morgana. “You’ll get everything out of order, and then I’ll be fucked for finding anything.”
“It’s a wonder you can find anything now,” Morgana says as Merlin picks up Arthur’s book, still open on his lap, and stands. He places the book in the now-empty chair and stretches, hands clasping together above his head. Over the low groan that spills from his mouth as the tension bleeds out of his back and shoulders, he can hear Morgana laughing, and he imagines that Arthur must have raised her a finger; they always tend to bring out the most immature bits of each other, those two.
Merlin starts shuffling toward the kitchen, a hand reaching up and rubbing at the still-sore muscles in his neck. It’s not a long walk, so he reaches the doorway and leans against it just in time to see Arthur playfully push Morgana away from the refrigerator before he leans in to find the cream himself.
Arthur says, “You watched me pull it out not twenty minutes ago. Have you always been so forgetful, or is this a new thing?” and this time, Morgana doesn’t laugh, only glares a bit and pouts, and Merlin can’t hold back a chuckle. Morgana looks up and glares at him for a few seconds, too, before her face breaks into a smile, greeting and bright.
“Here, see?” Arthur straightens, bottle of cream held out in one hand while the other closes the refrigerator door behind him. “Really not that hard.”
Morgana sighs and rolls her eyes a bit, but thanks him as she takes the container anyway. She nods her head slightly at the doorway Merlin’s resting against, and Arthur turns. He smiles, just a small one, when he sees Merlin standing there.
“Finally decided to join the land of the living, have you?” Arthur says, and while his voice is teasing, it’s with an undercurrent of something almost strained. Merlin pauses at hearing it and shoots Arthur a questioning glance, but Arthur waves him off with a minute shake of his head, and Merlin chooses not to press the issue while they have company.
“Yeah, figured I probably should,” he says instead, pulling away from the wall and crossing the kitchen to get himself a mug for tea. He presses a quick kiss to Arthur’s lips as he passes, fingers stretching out to brush against the sleeve of Arthur’s robe.
“The water in the kettle’s still hot enough,” Arthur murmurs, and Merlin nods as he reaches for the box of teabags they keep stored with the mugs. Morgana’s probably right about their lack of organization -- his mother, certainly, would never have kept tea anywhere except the pantry -- but Merlin knows he and Arthur are in agreement about leaving their kitchen set-up as is. It’s a system that works for them, even if it’s completely illogical to others -- another thing that’s theirs exclusively, and Merlin knows and doesn’t care that he’s selfish in his reluctance to give that up.
As he places the teabag in his mug, Merlin says over his shoulder, “Lovely to see you this morning, Morgana. How are things?”
He hears her swallow the mouthful of coffee she was drinking before her response comes. “Fine. Work’s been busy, but then, it always is, so that’s nothing new. I actually was just on my way there. I got a call this morning when I was about a block from here, so I figured I’d stop in like I’d planned and just cut my visit short.”
Merlin doesn’t remember any plans to have Morgana visit this morning, but he decides not to question it. She and Arthur had probably arranged something together -- for all that they complain about each other, they are visibly close, and Merlin thinks that Arthur probably spends more time with her than he lets on.
“Well, I’m sorry you couldn’t stay longer,” Merlin says, and Arthur snorts, mutters about her still being here long enough to pollute his house with that horrid coffee smell. Arthur yelps a second later, and Merlin guesses that Morgana has probably thrown something, most likely her napkin, at him. Sure enough, when Merlin turns around, Arthur is crushing a wad of paper in his fist and pouting while Morgana smiles sweetly, innocently, behind him.
“Yeah. Some other time, maybe. I’d really only planned on stopping by to drop off a book for Arthur.” She points at it, a thick paperback lying in the middle of the table she’s sitting at. From what Merlin can see of the cover, it’s another one for Arthur’s already-sizeable collection of Arthurian legends and lore. Again, nothing new.
Arthur glances at the clock. “It’s 10:30 now. Didn’t you say something about needing to be in by 11:00?”
“Shit, yes,” Morgana says, pushing her chair back and standing quickly. She gathers up the thermos of coffee in front of her (must have been what she needed the cream for, then) and her purse before rushing out of the kitchen and for the front door, calling a short, “Bye!” over her shoulder as she goes.
Merlin shakes his head and laughs, looks at Arthur and expects to see him doing the same. Instead, Arthur is grimacing, the fingers of his right hand kneading at his creased forehead and eyes squinted shut.
“You all right?” Merlin asks, instantly serious.
“Yeah, of course,” Arthur responds, but he doesn’t sound it; he sounds sort of pained, and his words are coming out slightly breathless now. “Just a headache I’ve had all morning. I took an aspirin, just waiting for it to kick in.”
“Okay,” Merlin says, even if he’s not totally comfortable with that. Still, there’s nothing else he can do for now, so he turns back to his tea and adds “frequent, powerful headaches” to his mental list of Things to Discuss with Ewan Today. He pulls the teabag out and squeezes it against the spoon he’s holding, letting a few more drops fall into the mug. When he’s done, he tosses the teabag into the sink and begins to stir his tea. He doesn’t take anything with it, but the routine is nice, the whisper-soft scrape of the metal spoon against ceramic rhythmic and strangely soothing.
After a moment, he pulls the spoon out and places it on the counter, then picks up his mug to sip from it. From behind him, he hears Arthur sigh. When he glances over his shoulder to ask if anything’s wrong, he sees Arthur’s knees start to buckle, eyes still closed and skin looking suddenly pale as he falls, and fuck.
Merlin runs forward, mug dropping from his hand to shatter against the tile floor. His hands are outstretched and grasping, and they manage to catch Arthur’s shoulders and steady him as Merlin bends forward, loses his balance under Arthur's weight and slips onto his knees. They throb where they hit the cold, polished stone of the tile, and hot tea is spreading through the grout and stinging at his shins, the tips of his toes, but he doesn’t notice, too focussed on Arthur; Arthur, who is shaking against Merlin; Arthur, who is disturbingly non-responsive in Merlin’s hold.
***
He doesn’t really remember how they got to hospital, but he guesses it has something to do with Morgana. She’d left something behind, her mobile or wallet or something equally inane, and had come back to get it, letting herself in when there was no answer to her knock. She’d found them in the kitchen, Merlin still clutching Arthur and Arthur still unconscious, and, always one to keep her wits about her, she’d dialled for an ambulance.
Or so Merlin figures. This morning’s all a bit of a blur now. He remembers Morgana, and he remembers Arthur falling, and he remembers the way his heart had jumped to his throat at seeing Arthur silent and prone in a hospital bed after he’d finally been stabilized and allowed visitors. Arthur’s still out, has been since Merlin and Morgana arrived, and it’s doing nothing for Merlin’s nerves.
Ewan’s expression now isn’t helping them much, either. Ewan had cancelled his other appointments for an immediate assessment, and Merlin’s grateful for that, he really is, but he wishes Ewan would give him something more, some piece of good news, to be grateful for. As it is, the look on Ewan’s face is not a reassuring one. Merlin’s still numb from the shock of Arthur apparently having a goddamned seizure this morning, but he’s aware enough to know from personal experience with his own patients that the way Ewan’s lips are pursed together, the tightness around his eyes, the way he can’t look at Merlin for more than a few seconds at a time -- they’re exactly what he doesn’t want to see right now. Ewan’s saying something about limited options and can try to make him comfortable, and Merlin squeezes his eyes tightly shut against the rush in his head that those words start.
He nods sharply to show he understands, to cut off whatever Ewan’s saying that will only make this worse, and says, “Thanks, Ewan.”
Ewan’s eyes are sympathetic when he says, “I know it’s the last thing you want to hear, but I’m sorry,” and he’s right, it is the last thing Merlin wants to hear. Nothing’s happened yet for Ewan to be sorry for, and even if it had, his apology couldn’t fix it; they’re worthless words, and they’re distracting Merlin from thinking, from calming down, and he needs them to stop.
He nods again, says, “Yeah, I know,” and turns and walks back to Arthur’s bedside, not much caring about how rude it is. He’s sure Ewan understands.
The chair he sits down in is one of two pulled up near the bed. It’s standard hospital fare, hard and straight-backed and wholly uncomfortable, and Merlin doesn’t blame Morgana for having gone for a walk after sitting in the one next to it all morning. Her coat and scarf are still here, draped over the back, and they brush against Merlin’s arm when he moves to grip Arthur’s hand where it rests on top of the blankets.
Arthur’s hand is cold, bruised residually from the series of IVs and needles he’s had inserted into it recently. His skin is pale and thin-feeling, almost like paper, but still soft where Merlin strokes his thumb across it. Merlin threads his fingers through Arthur’s, can feel each individual knuckle and bone in them and wishes he couldn’t, and brings Arthur’s hand up to kiss it. He knows he’s being soppy, knows Arthur would mock Merlin horribly if he knew, but damn it, Arthur doesn’t know because Arthur’s unconscious, and Merlin doesn’t think any jury would convict him his sentimentality.
He lays Arthur’s hand back down on the bed and resumes tracing circles on it with his thumb. He gets so caught up in the repetition of the motion, soothing as it is, that he almost doesn’t notice when Arthur’s fingers twitch slightly in his. Almost doesn’t mean he actually misses it, though, so he looks up at the small motion, frantically searching Arthur’s face for any signs of him waking up.
He’s not disappointed. Arthur blinks his eyes open slowly, each time pulling his eyelids up a little higher. His gaze, when it meets Merlin’s, looks fuzzy and confused, as if he’s not sure why he’s here. Merlin can’t help but smile at him.
“Hey,” Merlin whispers, voice too shaky with relief to be anything more. “How are you feeling?”
Arthur blinks again before answering. “Okay. Why am I --?” He breaks off, but Merlin doesn’t need the rest of his question to answer it.
“You fell this morning. In the kitchen. Morgana had to call the paramedics.”
Arthur closes his eyes. “My God, I actually swooned?” He sounds a little self-deprecating, a little attempting-to-be-humorous, and a lot too-tired-to-hide-it.
Merlin swallows. “The doctors are pretty confident it was a small seizure. So not really a swoon, if that helps any.”
It doesn’t, and Merlin knows this, but Arthur smiles anyway. “Thanks. Anything for my already-wounded ego, right?”
“Is your head still hurting? I’ll need to call for Ewan if it is.”
“No, not that I can tell.”
They lapse into silence. Arthur’s eyes are still closed, and his breathing is deep and even, and Merlin thinks he may have slipped back into sleep.
“Merlin?” Or not.
“Hm? What?”
“When I not-swooned. Why did you catch me?”
Merlin’s more than a little confused by the question. He’s not sure why Arthur would even ask to begin with. He’d think the answer would be obvious: he caught Arthur because it’s Arthur, and if there’s anything that terrifies Merlin beyond compare, it’s the thought of watching Arthur slip, of seeing him fall to less than he is meant to be.
He can’t figure out how to put that into words that won’t get him ridiculed, though, so he says nothing. After a minute, Arthur opens his eyes again. They seem clearer now, Arthur’s gaze a bit more up to its normal, piercing standard. He stares at Merlin, and Merlin stares back, both trying to read each other for reasons why. Merlin’s not sure either of them is successful.
Arthur says, “I’m through with waiting, Merlin,” and Merlin thinks for a second that he’s done something very, very wrong by not answering straight away, regardless of how much Arthur would have laughed at him.
“What?”
Arthur blinks again. His eyes are bright, focussed, when he says, “This morning, I felt ready. Unafraid. And I knew, I knew that I didn’t want to wait anymore. It felt like I didn’t have to, and it felt right.”
Merlin’s heart sinks. He knows what Arthur’s referring to, much as he wishes he didn’t, that he couldn’t read Arthur like an open book after so long. The grip he has on Arthur’s hand tightens involuntarily, squeezing and grasping both for the effort of keeping him here and the tangible reminder that it’s working. Arthur’s eyes are closed again, his head lolls against the pillow a bit as the IV drip and exhaustion work to pull him back under, and his voice is slow, dulled, as he says, “I need you to let go, Merlin.”
Merlin drops Arthur’s hand like it’s burning, like it pains him to hold it when the reality is anything but that. He whispers, “Sorry,” and he has never been so glad to pretend he doesn’t know every level of what Arthur means.
The man, or spectre of a man, or whatever he is -- he visited again this morning. Just as he had visited the afternoon before, and the morning before that, and in the dead of night four days ago.
The traveller has seen him up close now, near enough to tell that the man’s eyes are a clear, bright blue, that his skin is pale, that his hair curls around his ears and the corners of his mouth curl into a smirk, an involuntary smile. And the traveller has seen him far enough away that he is merely a smudge of brown in the landscape, an outline of a figure who is nearly dismissible and entirely not.
He always has a message, and it is always the same: Finish it, spoken soft and carried on the wind and echoing in the traveller’s ears.
Finish it. The traveller has never heard the man say anything but those words; he’s beginning to think he never will.
The traveller is also beginning to get frustrated. The man came again, delivered those same words, and the traveller is no closer to understanding what they mean. A storm is forming on the farthest point on the horizon; he can smell it in the air and feel it in the dirt, in how the path under his feet is almost quivering with excitement, little rocks and handfuls of dust scattering on every gust of wind.
A storm is coming, and the traveller is lost in something for the first time in his life, even as he presses forward in the only direction he knows.
Part Three
“And that’s the earliest you can take us? You’ve absolutely nothing open first thing in the morning?”
“No, Merlin, I’m sorry,” Ewan sighs into the phone, weary and slightly exasperated, and Merlin feels a twinge of guilt. He normally avoids calling doctors in their off-hours, knowing from experience how few and far-between uninterrupted breaks from work actually are; still, this is important -- this is Arthur, and Merlin’s always had a tendency to bend the rules for him.
Ewan continues, “Look, I wish I could do better for you, really, but my morning’s been booked with appointments for months, and I’m already going to be cancelling a department meeting to fit you in. So there’s really noth --”
“Yeah, no, I get it. It’s fine, really,” Merlin says, scrubbing the hand not holding the phone through his hair. It isn’t fine, but there’s nothing more he can do, and it’ll do none of them any favours for him to be angry with Ewan for simply trying to do his job.
After a bit of a pause, Ewan clears his throat. “So, uh. Keep an eye on him for the rest of the night and call me if anything immediate happens, yeah? And otherwise, I’ll see you both tomorrow at 3:00?”
“Yes, definitely. See you then, Ewan, and thanks again.” His mobile clicks softly when he flips it shut, ending the call with a sigh. The appointment time isn’t ideal -- he’d much prefer something earlier, something that would mean he wouldn’t spend the whole day worried out of his mind over what this means for Arthur, for his treatment options and prognosis. In this case, though, he’ll have to take what he can get; Ewan’s a fantastic doctor, one of the best in his field, and working with low appointment availability is a consequence of seeing someone with that reputation.
Merlin sets the phone on the counter and picks up the mug of tea he had been drinking before finally getting through to Ewan. It’s cooled off by now, and he grimaces after the first sip. There’s really no sense in forcing it down, not when its aftertaste is making him sort of nauseous, so he pours it into the sink instead. Washing the cup and placing it on the rack to dry takes all of a minute, maybe two, and then he’s grabbing his mobile and heading back upstairs to join Arthur in bed.
When he reaches their room, Arthur is already half-asleep. He’s curled up with his back to Merlin’s side of the bed, the blankets pulled up around him and tucked under his chin. Merlin takes a minute to raise the thermostat using the control panel in the corridor, setting the heat up a bit higher; the last thing he needs now is for Arthur to get sick.
Walking into the room, he sees that Arthur has left his bedside lamp on for Merlin to see by. It’s probably what’s keeping Arthur from falling asleep fully, but he’s always been the one to leave a small light on in efforts to combat Merlin’s clumsiness in the dark. It rarely ever works -- even the smallest of shadows are able to trip Merlin up, it seems -- but it’s sweet, the way Arthur’s protective streak comes out almost reflexively.
True to form, though, the dim light from the lamp doesn’t stop Merlin from stubbing his toe on the dresser twice and almost losing his balance when his right foot gets tangled in the leg of his trousers. Eventually, he manages to strip down to his pants and throw on an undershirt, then kick his dirty clothes in the general direction of the hamper to be dealt with properly tomorrow. He flips off the light using the wall switch and pads carefully back to his side of the bed, hands outstretched and groping in front of him, searching for the edge of the mattress before he simply collides with it.
Merlin slips under the covers easily, rolling over so that he’s pressed flush against Arthur, chest to back. His left arm curls up and tucks under his pillow, and his right arm wraps immediately, naturally, around Arthur’s waist, pulling him closer.
Arthur shifts a little, mumbles, “What’s up?”
His voice is sleepy and a tiny bit slurred, and Merlin smiles against the back of Arthur’s neck. He says, “We have an appointment with Ewan tomorrow afternoon. At three.”
“Okay,” Arthur sighs. Then, so quiet Merlin almost can’t hear him, “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Merlin says, and it’s slightly shaky for reasons he doesn’t want to think at present. He kisses the back of Arthur’s neck softly, feels Arthur relax impossibly more against him, and repeats, “Yeah. Everything’s -- I’m fine.”
Arthur hums quietly in acknowledgment, and in a few minutes, Merlin hears his breath even out as he falls asleep. He’s warm and pliant in Merlin’s arms, just as he has been for countless nights before this one. For some reason, however, Merlin can’t help but feel that something’s different; changed, somehow, by what he learned tonight.
It’s not really seeing the tumour have yet another effect on Arthur. As much as it hurts to think of, Merlin has been steadily watching Arthur grow sicker for two years now. He’s still Arthur, still intelligent and passionate and fiercely defensive of what he loves, but it’s almost as if he’s been reduced, quieted. Ironically, it’s the intense anger Arthur had shown earlier tonight that threw into Merlin’s face just how much about Arthur has shifted, and it’s a frightening revelation.
Merlin has a sudden flash of memory, an image of Arthur from just after they started dating, back when it was more convenience and lust than affection and love. He had been so young, then -- they both had, but Arthur had been more noticeably different, and oh, Merlin can remember him: blond fringe falling into his eyes and curling around his ears, cheeks flushed in perfect match with his red T-shirt, mouth open and laughing as he ran ahead of Merlin in the park. Arthur hasn’t been so carefree, so unrepentantly vibrant, since before he fell ill, and Merlin’s chest tightens at the thought of it.
He feels almost guilty for thinking that, for getting so worked up over missing Arthur when Arthur’s still here, curled up warm and lazy against Merlin. But at the same time, everything that’s happened tonight, from the scare earlier in the tub to the memory Merlin’s just had -- it’s made everything suddenly realer, more intense and more of an immediate threat than it has been in months. And even as Merlin holds Arthur now, feels the tickle of his hair and the heat of his skin and the rise-and-fall motion of his chest, it’s like Arthur is slipping away, like Merlin is losing him still, no matter what they do to stop it.
There’s no way to deny that Merlin’s breaths are incredibly shaky now, and his eyes are burning and moist-feeling. He hears Arthur hum again, just a bit, and when Arthur shifts against him, Merlin realises that the arm he’s thrown over Arthur’s waist has tightened to the point where it must be painful, even in sleep. Slowly, trying not to wake Arthur, Merlin pulls away and climbs out of bed. He stumbles his way out of the room and into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind him. He’d forgot that he’d left the staircase light on, and it’s now harsh and bright to his unadjusted eyes, forcing Merlin to see his hands shaking as he slides down the wall.
For the first time in a long while, probably since those exceptionally difficult months after Arthur initially got sick, Merlin lets himself cry.
One afternoon, the traveller meets another person for the first time in as long as he can remember.
It’s another hot day, and the traveller is walking, because the traveller is always walking, his world just one foot in front of the other in front of the other and eyes ahead and focussed and watch for rocks or potholes or puddles or animals or slopes or anything not smooth and solid dirt. He likes it that way, simple and steady, the sound of his feet a repetitive beat from a repetitive motion in a repetitive day. It’s constant, sure to not disappoint him or trip him up, and he enjoys that.
So the traveller is walking, left foot right foot left foot right foot repeat repeat repeat, and his footfalls are, as always, the only sound he hears, until they’re not. Because from behind him, unexpectedly, comes a voice: “Finish it.”
It’s barely audible, but it’s different, unexpected, and enough to make the traveller stop instantly. Slowly, he turns around (something he hasn’t done in ages, so many days of forward forward forward that he has almost forgot what it is to look back).
About ten paces behind him, in the middle of the dirt road, stands a man. He is thin, but carries himself with the stance and poise of someone who was once larger, less skin-and-bones and more muscle. His hair is blond and cropped short, his skin pale. He wears a woollen, chocolate brown coat, and a scarf of alternating red and gold stripes is draped around his neck. His eyes -- the traveller is too far away to see the colour of his eyes, but even from here, he can see that they look compassionate, even friendly.
“Finish it,” the man says again, voice soft but firm, expectant, and the traveller doesn’t know what he means, but wants to, wants so desperately to please this man.
The traveller has a moment to register this, another to open his mouth to ask the man who he is, and then the man is gone, vanished like he was never there.
An hour later, Merlin finds himself back in the kitchen. He is unable to fall asleep, and he’s tried, tried sliding back into bed next to Arthur, but after forty minutes of staring at where the ceiling would be could he see it properly, he’s realised that attempting to sleep will likely be, for him, a totally unproductive undertaking tonight. So he’s come back downstairs, not necessarily because he thinks this will be a better use of his time, but because Arthur needs the rest even if Merlin can’t find any, and Merlin’s not going to risk waking him by shifting around in the bed all night.
Merlin’s made himself another cup of tea -- peppermint, this time -- and he’s meandering aimlessly through their brownstone’s first level. This pacing won’t tire him out, but it’ll give him some way to distract his mind, the even repetition of step sip step swallow step sip step swallow enough to make him not think.
As he walks by the foyer, though, he notices something on the decorative table they keep there. The table has no purpose other than their general dump ground, and while it was probably intended to display flower arrangements or picture frames or miniature Zen gardens, it instead serves only as a place to leave coats, hats, gloves, packages, keys -- pretty much anything not absolutely necessary after walking in the front door. Tonight, Merlin sees, resting on top of the pile of his and Arthur’s coats and scarves, a leather-covered book: Arthur’s manuscript, left there in the rush to get Arthur upstairs and into a bath.
Merlin walks over to the table and, with the hand not holding his tea, picks up the book. It’s still heavy, although not quite as cold as it felt in the park, and when he holds it up closer, Merlin can smell the pungent odour of the leather binding. Figuring he might as well -- Arthur had said he could, and it’s not like he has anything better to do -- Merlin heads into the den, where he settles down onto their overly-plush couch and switches on the goose-necked reading lamp next to it. The book rests awkwardly on his thighs, leather starting to stick to his skin, as he finishes his tea and places the mug on the floor.
The front page, when he finally finishes rearranging himself on the couch and opens the book to read, says only Under the Wild Oak. The title is written, like the rest of the book, in Arthur’s almost-calligraphic script, letters spiking and swirling into each other with a grace Merlin has always admired. He’s not entirely sure why Arthur chose to handwrite his manuscript --probably a combination of Arthur’s admiration for the old arts and his eagerness to use the one-of-a-kind fountain pen bought for him by his father (a ridiculously expensive way of making up for the rather disastrous argument that had occurred after Arthur decided to leave his father’s company to write a book). In any case, it’s lovely to look at, and Merlin smiles a tiny bit as he flips to the page headed “Chapter One” and begins to read.
Albion is being torn apart . . .
Albion is being torn apart. Once peaceful, it is now consumed by a war that licks and spreads across it like fire, alliances and boundaries disappearing like ashes in the wind. New rebellions, noble and common alike, ignite each day, fierce and frequent as they haven’t been since Uther Pendragon’s ban on magic was first instated, long before Arthur’s now-disappearing unification settled in.
And at the centre of it all, Arthur’s kingdom and stronghold: Camelot itself, smouldering with discontent and flagging loyalty. With revolts have come famine -- a result of farmers spending more time fighting each other for land than actually working what they already have -- and the cities have suffered from this worst of all. People are starving, diseases carried from battlefield to town are beginning to spread, and unhappiness rages as strongly within the limits of Camelot as greed does in the surrounding countryside. Arthur’s control is slipping, just shy of extinguished, and all of Albion knows it.
None of this is helped, of course, by the siege Camelot is currently under. The city is surrounded, cut off from trade routes and new supplies, and it’s only a matter of time before the last loyal centre of Arthur’s once-great empire surrenders itself.
Personally, Morgan le Fay couldn’t be more pleased by the way everything has panned out. She has not been directly responsible for every bit of steady degradation, every chip at the foundation of Arthur’s reign and the Pendragon family’s authority; but she has foreseen key parts of it and done nothing to stop them, even on the days where she almost forgave Arthur for Uther’s betrayal, and she considers this as good as instigating everything herself.
Most days, Morgan exits her tent and walks through her (Mordred’s, really, but he answers to her) troops’ encampments outside walls of Camelot. She looks at the turrets of the castle where she once lived, and she can see the cracks and signs of weather in them from here; she breathes in air that she remembers as sweet and refreshing, and she can taste only smoke that stings the back of her throat. She takes all of this in, the twisted beauty of Camelot on the verge of falling, and she is pleased.
Most nights, Morgan stays secluded in her tent, receiving only Mordred as a visitor, and then only when she summons for him. She scries using a heavy stone basin filled with water, takes a perverse sort of pleasure in watching the rest of Albion drive itself further and further into its own descent. For every new rebellion, she scoops ashes onto her fingers and smears them, thick and grey and dusty, over the map of Albion spread out on her table. She watches Arthur’s territories pull away from him, marks their steady progress and smiles a little more for every night she falls asleep with her fingers looking dirty and charred.
The lifeblood of Arthur’s empire is draining away, its king helpless to staunch the flow, and Morgan finds it glorious.
***
Myrddin finds Arthur at the top of the castle’s northernmost tower. He is leaning against a parapet, elbows pressed into rough stone and shoulders hunched up around his neck as he surveys his kingdom. It’s not exactly a sad sight, but it is a disconcerting one; Arthur doesn’t look broken -- he’s too proud, too stubborn, for that -- but he does, for one of the few times in all the years Myrddin has known him, look exhausted. When Myrddin steps up beside him, he can see that Arthur’s face reflects this same weariness, something etched so deeply into the lines of his skin and posture that it’s become inseparable.
Myrddin thinks this -- seeing Arthur look, for once in his life, every bit his age, every bit of worry and stress he has experienced as king -- is far worse than seeing Arthur broken could ever be.
He doesn’t say as much, though, just leans on the wall right next to Arthur, close enough that their shoulders rest against each other, however slightly. It’s a silent support, and he knows that Arthur appreciates it every bit as much as he knows that Arthur will never say so.
Arthur doesn’t say anything for a long while, actually, statements of appreciation or not, but Myrddin has come to expect that of him. As loud and out-spoken (obnoxious, even, although only Myrddin could ever say so and go unpunished) as he was in his youth, Arthur grown is a wiser person in many ways, speech being only one of them. He has learned the value of words, that while they may not carry the same immediate power Myrddin’s favoured language of old does, they are still something to be feared, to be chosen and employed carefully and only to one’s advantage. Myrddin is proud of him for this, but there are still times when he misses the easy conversation he and Arthur used to have.
He’s cut off in his pondering by Arthur finally speaking up.
“She is certainly making things difficult, isn’t she?”
Myrddin would laugh at Arthur’s route of pointing out the obvious, except he knows that, despite his sarcasm, that’s not what Arthur really wants him to do. “Yes,” he says instead.
“Any updates on our status? Food, weapons, men -- you know?”
“As much as I hate to be the bearer of bad news, no. Food stores are just as low as they were before. Weapons are the same, although I have spent the last few days reapplying the wards to them, so that should help a bit if you ever get to a battle. But we’d need a proper army for them to be of any real use, and that’s still short in coming with so much of the country fighting itself instead of behind us.”
Arthur sighs and brings a hand up to rub at his forehead. He is obviously weary, and Myrddin feels for him. The nights lately have been too ashy and hot with anticipation and the fires burning just beyond the castle walls to allow comfortable sleep, and they’re all exhausted.
“I feel like I’ve failed them, Myrddin. My people, my father, even Morgan.”
“Morgan’s the cause of this. Why would you feel as if you had failed her?”
“Because the Morgan I knew, before the fever and my father’s betrayal broke her -- she wouldn’t have wanted this to happen. Much as she may have hated being forced to live here at times, she did love this land, once, and she wouldn’t have wanted any harm to come to it, least of all from herself. If she could remember anything about this place but anger, she’d be ashamed of me for not having taken action already. She’d call me soft and foolish, blinded irrationally by something that’s nonexistent now, and gods, I would never hear the end of it, and she would be right.”
Myrddin shifts so that more of his weight, his support, is leaning against Arthur’s shoulder. “You can’t blame yourself, you know.”
Arthur’s voice sounds angry when he answers, although Myrddin thinks it’s more at Arthur himself than anything else. “But I can. As king, I am supposed to protect them, to stop things like this from happening, and I have failed in that, undeniably so. And all because I allowed myself to become too complacent in a peace I knew would never be anything more than brief.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being comfortable in peace, Arthur. That’s what it exists for, after all.”
At that, Arthur smiles a small bit, seemingly in spite of himself, and Myrrdin feels minutely accomplished.
“Of course, Myrddin. Great thing I have you here to remind me of the obvious.”
The moment of levity is just that, though: a moment, and far too quick at that. It passes, and Arthur sighs again, heavy and weary. He says, “I’m just not sure what to do anymore, if it would just be better for them to surrender myself to her.”
Here, Myrddin has to object. Arthur has learned the value of self-sacrifice over the course of his kingship, and that’s fantastic, but it seems to have been at the expense of knowing the value of himself to Camelot. And that, Myrddin just cannot have.
“It wouldn’t be. I can tell you right now that it wouldn’t be. You’ve said it yourself, Arthur: Morgan is here, doing all of this, because she’s angry. She’s bitter and vengeful and wronged, and in what world is it a good idea for the one sane leader with the ability to fix everything to step aside and allow the one who’s royally messed everything over to take control?”
“But --”
“But nothing, Arthur. You are the one who has to fix this, and you’re the only one who really can, because you’re the only one at this point who’s not fighting for just himself.”
“Even if I do find some way to defeat her, though, fixing everything she has wronged, restoring that peace -- it will take ages, Myrddin, far beyond what I have left to live. I will still fight for Camelot, until the day I die, but it doesn’t make sense for me to lead this battle anymore.”
And with that, Arthur has reached the crux of the matter, the problem has Myrddin has been struggling with for months as time slips away from him, and the reason he has come to see Arthur tonight. He takes a deep breath, hoping Arthur won’t maim him for sitting on this information for so long.
“I may have found a way around that, actually.”
Arthur whips his head around, eyes wide and disbelieving and a question already forming on his lips. Myrddin almost laughs at how Arthur is still dumbstruck by things like this, even when he should have learned long ago to always associate Myrddin with Doing the Impossible.
He saves Arthur the difficulty of asking and launches right into his explanation. “There are legends of a vessel, a cup, that grants whoever drinks from it eternal life.”
Arthur looks disbelieving again, but this time with a scornful undertone, as if he can’t see why Myrddin would dare to waste his time with such nonsense. “You’re referring to the Grail legends? This is your grand solution?”
“Yes, and don’t look so disdainful. I know that you think they’re foolish --”
“That’s one word for them, yes, and by far one of the nicest ones.”
“Would you shut up and let me finish?” Arthur rolls his eyes and makes a grand, sweeping gesture with his hand for Myrddin to continue, and oh, but Myrddin will be having words with him later. “I know you think they’re foolish, but they’re not. The Christians call it the Holy Grail, and their stories about it are a bit ridiculous, but it’s in the Old Religion, too. It’s called the Cup of Life there, and I’ve seen it, Arthur, I’ve used it before; I know for a fact it exists.”
“You’ve used it? When?”
“The first time the Questing Beast came. Ordinary magic can’t cure the Turning of Fate, Arthur, not even mine.”
“So why didn’t you take it then?”
“Because it was too inextricably linked to the Old Religion. Even trying to take it would have shattered the balance between magic and normal forces, and I don’t know what that would have done.”
“You say ‘was’ like something’s changed?” Arthur’s words make Myrddin relax a bit. Arthur is already intrigued by this, and it’s probably overtaking his scepticism on the subject, so Myrddin needn’t be quite so defensive with his answers, and that’s always a relief. He hasn’t had to prove anything serious to Arthur in a long time; he’d rather not start again now.
“I think it might have. I'm more powerful now, for one.” Arthur snorts at this, and Myrddin graciously chooses to ignore him. “Also, the fact that other religions use the same object now in their legends -- like Christianity and its Grail, as you said. I think that might be weakening the ties the Old Religion has on the Cup. It’s not the sole owner of that artefact anymore, and the other legends have changed to say people can remove it. Gaius said once that magic was a malleable, changing force, and it is, so there’s a possibility that the magic changed to match the legends. There’s actually a chance of being able to move the Cup, now.”
Arthur is still staring at Myrddin with slight disbelief, but Myrddin can see that Arthur wants to believe him, and that’s enough for what he needs.
“I also think I might know where it is. I want to go retrieve it.”
“No. Absolutely not.” The speed of Arthur’s reply would be comical if it weren’t the exact opposite of what Myrddin wants to hear.
“But if I know where it is and what it looks like, it only --”
“Then you can tell me, or write it down, or both, and I will send one of my knights to find it.”
“That’s ridiculous. You’re hard-pressed enough for manpower as it is, and you know he’d never make it through Morgan’s lines.”
“I’m hard-pressed enough for everything without having my most powerful advisor trotting around the countryside for something he may not find. No.”
“Arthur. I know where it is. I’ve been searching for leads in the legends and books for weeks now, and I’ve pieced the location together.”
“Oh, have you?”
And oh, if he wants to get snippy, Myrddin can play that right back. “Why do you think I waited so long to come to you with this? I know where it is, Arthur, and I’ll be able to get it. Trust me. Please.”
Arthur has turned back to looking over his city at this point, eyes surveying the battle-scarred earth and the fires that stand out like scattered pockmarks in the distance. His eyes are unreadable, but Myrddin knows that above all, Arthur will abide by what is best for his people, for Camelot. And even he, stubborn as he is, cannot deny that this chance to undermine the limitation of death, this very real possibility of victory, is what Camelot needs.
Myrddin’s not wrong in his assumption about Arthur, can’t be after knowing him for so long. And sure enough, the next thing Arthur says is: “Fine. You have a month to search and a month to return, and after that, I’m sending someone after you. And I want you to strengthen the wards on the castle and city before you go.”
The grin that Myrddin can feel spreading across his face in excitement is obnoxious, one a younger Arthur would have mocked him for endlessly. “Thank you,” he says, and settles in again next to Arthur in silent vigil for their land, shoulders brushing in warm alliance.
Merlin wakes the next morning (and he’s surprised to be doing that, actually; he’d been so sure last night would be another sleepless one) with an awful crick in his neck and the smell of coffee teasing at his nose. The first is to be expected -- he’s still young, but a night curled up in a chair isn’t good for anyone. The second, though, puzzles him a bit: he and Arthur both prefer tea in the morning, and Arthur has always loathed the taste of coffee, so there’s no reason he’d make some, unless --
“Where, exactly, in this disorganized mess you call a refrigerator is your cream?”
And ah, yes, that would be it. Morgana’s voice (piercing after a few nights of minimal sleep, although Merlin would never dare tell her that) echoes from the kitchen, and Merlin can hear the soft clang of bottles as she starts as she starts shifting things around in her search, not bothering to wait for an answer.
“Stop, stop!” Merlin hears Arthur say, huffy and impatient in that way he always is with Morgana. “You’ll get everything out of order, and then I’ll be fucked for finding anything.”
“It’s a wonder you can find anything now,” Morgana says as Merlin picks up Arthur’s book, still open on his lap, and stands. He places the book in the now-empty chair and stretches, hands clasping together above his head. Over the low groan that spills from his mouth as the tension bleeds out of his back and shoulders, he can hear Morgana laughing, and he imagines that Arthur must have raised her a finger; they always tend to bring out the most immature bits of each other, those two.
Merlin starts shuffling toward the kitchen, a hand reaching up and rubbing at the still-sore muscles in his neck. It’s not a long walk, so he reaches the doorway and leans against it just in time to see Arthur playfully push Morgana away from the refrigerator before he leans in to find the cream himself.
Arthur says, “You watched me pull it out not twenty minutes ago. Have you always been so forgetful, or is this a new thing?” and this time, Morgana doesn’t laugh, only glares a bit and pouts, and Merlin can’t hold back a chuckle. Morgana looks up and glares at him for a few seconds, too, before her face breaks into a smile, greeting and bright.
“Here, see?” Arthur straightens, bottle of cream held out in one hand while the other closes the refrigerator door behind him. “Really not that hard.”
Morgana sighs and rolls her eyes a bit, but thanks him as she takes the container anyway. She nods her head slightly at the doorway Merlin’s resting against, and Arthur turns. He smiles, just a small one, when he sees Merlin standing there.
“Finally decided to join the land of the living, have you?” Arthur says, and while his voice is teasing, it’s with an undercurrent of something almost strained. Merlin pauses at hearing it and shoots Arthur a questioning glance, but Arthur waves him off with a minute shake of his head, and Merlin chooses not to press the issue while they have company.
“Yeah, figured I probably should,” he says instead, pulling away from the wall and crossing the kitchen to get himself a mug for tea. He presses a quick kiss to Arthur’s lips as he passes, fingers stretching out to brush against the sleeve of Arthur’s robe.
“The water in the kettle’s still hot enough,” Arthur murmurs, and Merlin nods as he reaches for the box of teabags they keep stored with the mugs. Morgana’s probably right about their lack of organization -- his mother, certainly, would never have kept tea anywhere except the pantry -- but Merlin knows he and Arthur are in agreement about leaving their kitchen set-up as is. It’s a system that works for them, even if it’s completely illogical to others -- another thing that’s theirs exclusively, and Merlin knows and doesn’t care that he’s selfish in his reluctance to give that up.
As he places the teabag in his mug, Merlin says over his shoulder, “Lovely to see you this morning, Morgana. How are things?”
He hears her swallow the mouthful of coffee she was drinking before her response comes. “Fine. Work’s been busy, but then, it always is, so that’s nothing new. I actually was just on my way there. I got a call this morning when I was about a block from here, so I figured I’d stop in like I’d planned and just cut my visit short.”
Merlin doesn’t remember any plans to have Morgana visit this morning, but he decides not to question it. She and Arthur had probably arranged something together -- for all that they complain about each other, they are visibly close, and Merlin thinks that Arthur probably spends more time with her than he lets on.
“Well, I’m sorry you couldn’t stay longer,” Merlin says, and Arthur snorts, mutters about her still being here long enough to pollute his house with that horrid coffee smell. Arthur yelps a second later, and Merlin guesses that Morgana has probably thrown something, most likely her napkin, at him. Sure enough, when Merlin turns around, Arthur is crushing a wad of paper in his fist and pouting while Morgana smiles sweetly, innocently, behind him.
“Yeah. Some other time, maybe. I’d really only planned on stopping by to drop off a book for Arthur.” She points at it, a thick paperback lying in the middle of the table she’s sitting at. From what Merlin can see of the cover, it’s another one for Arthur’s already-sizeable collection of Arthurian legends and lore. Again, nothing new.
Arthur glances at the clock. “It’s 10:30 now. Didn’t you say something about needing to be in by 11:00?”
“Shit, yes,” Morgana says, pushing her chair back and standing quickly. She gathers up the thermos of coffee in front of her (must have been what she needed the cream for, then) and her purse before rushing out of the kitchen and for the front door, calling a short, “Bye!” over her shoulder as she goes.
Merlin shakes his head and laughs, looks at Arthur and expects to see him doing the same. Instead, Arthur is grimacing, the fingers of his right hand kneading at his creased forehead and eyes squinted shut.
“You all right?” Merlin asks, instantly serious.
“Yeah, of course,” Arthur responds, but he doesn’t sound it; he sounds sort of pained, and his words are coming out slightly breathless now. “Just a headache I’ve had all morning. I took an aspirin, just waiting for it to kick in.”
“Okay,” Merlin says, even if he’s not totally comfortable with that. Still, there’s nothing else he can do for now, so he turns back to his tea and adds “frequent, powerful headaches” to his mental list of Things to Discuss with Ewan Today. He pulls the teabag out and squeezes it against the spoon he’s holding, letting a few more drops fall into the mug. When he’s done, he tosses the teabag into the sink and begins to stir his tea. He doesn’t take anything with it, but the routine is nice, the whisper-soft scrape of the metal spoon against ceramic rhythmic and strangely soothing.
After a moment, he pulls the spoon out and places it on the counter, then picks up his mug to sip from it. From behind him, he hears Arthur sigh. When he glances over his shoulder to ask if anything’s wrong, he sees Arthur’s knees start to buckle, eyes still closed and skin looking suddenly pale as he falls, and fuck.
Merlin runs forward, mug dropping from his hand to shatter against the tile floor. His hands are outstretched and grasping, and they manage to catch Arthur’s shoulders and steady him as Merlin bends forward, loses his balance under Arthur's weight and slips onto his knees. They throb where they hit the cold, polished stone of the tile, and hot tea is spreading through the grout and stinging at his shins, the tips of his toes, but he doesn’t notice, too focussed on Arthur; Arthur, who is shaking against Merlin; Arthur, who is disturbingly non-responsive in Merlin’s hold.
***
He doesn’t really remember how they got to hospital, but he guesses it has something to do with Morgana. She’d left something behind, her mobile or wallet or something equally inane, and had come back to get it, letting herself in when there was no answer to her knock. She’d found them in the kitchen, Merlin still clutching Arthur and Arthur still unconscious, and, always one to keep her wits about her, she’d dialled for an ambulance.
Or so Merlin figures. This morning’s all a bit of a blur now. He remembers Morgana, and he remembers Arthur falling, and he remembers the way his heart had jumped to his throat at seeing Arthur silent and prone in a hospital bed after he’d finally been stabilized and allowed visitors. Arthur’s still out, has been since Merlin and Morgana arrived, and it’s doing nothing for Merlin’s nerves.
Ewan’s expression now isn’t helping them much, either. Ewan had cancelled his other appointments for an immediate assessment, and Merlin’s grateful for that, he really is, but he wishes Ewan would give him something more, some piece of good news, to be grateful for. As it is, the look on Ewan’s face is not a reassuring one. Merlin’s still numb from the shock of Arthur apparently having a goddamned seizure this morning, but he’s aware enough to know from personal experience with his own patients that the way Ewan’s lips are pursed together, the tightness around his eyes, the way he can’t look at Merlin for more than a few seconds at a time -- they’re exactly what he doesn’t want to see right now. Ewan’s saying something about limited options and can try to make him comfortable, and Merlin squeezes his eyes tightly shut against the rush in his head that those words start.
He nods sharply to show he understands, to cut off whatever Ewan’s saying that will only make this worse, and says, “Thanks, Ewan.”
Ewan’s eyes are sympathetic when he says, “I know it’s the last thing you want to hear, but I’m sorry,” and he’s right, it is the last thing Merlin wants to hear. Nothing’s happened yet for Ewan to be sorry for, and even if it had, his apology couldn’t fix it; they’re worthless words, and they’re distracting Merlin from thinking, from calming down, and he needs them to stop.
He nods again, says, “Yeah, I know,” and turns and walks back to Arthur’s bedside, not much caring about how rude it is. He’s sure Ewan understands.
The chair he sits down in is one of two pulled up near the bed. It’s standard hospital fare, hard and straight-backed and wholly uncomfortable, and Merlin doesn’t blame Morgana for having gone for a walk after sitting in the one next to it all morning. Her coat and scarf are still here, draped over the back, and they brush against Merlin’s arm when he moves to grip Arthur’s hand where it rests on top of the blankets.
Arthur’s hand is cold, bruised residually from the series of IVs and needles he’s had inserted into it recently. His skin is pale and thin-feeling, almost like paper, but still soft where Merlin strokes his thumb across it. Merlin threads his fingers through Arthur’s, can feel each individual knuckle and bone in them and wishes he couldn’t, and brings Arthur’s hand up to kiss it. He knows he’s being soppy, knows Arthur would mock Merlin horribly if he knew, but damn it, Arthur doesn’t know because Arthur’s unconscious, and Merlin doesn’t think any jury would convict him his sentimentality.
He lays Arthur’s hand back down on the bed and resumes tracing circles on it with his thumb. He gets so caught up in the repetition of the motion, soothing as it is, that he almost doesn’t notice when Arthur’s fingers twitch slightly in his. Almost doesn’t mean he actually misses it, though, so he looks up at the small motion, frantically searching Arthur’s face for any signs of him waking up.
He’s not disappointed. Arthur blinks his eyes open slowly, each time pulling his eyelids up a little higher. His gaze, when it meets Merlin’s, looks fuzzy and confused, as if he’s not sure why he’s here. Merlin can’t help but smile at him.
“Hey,” Merlin whispers, voice too shaky with relief to be anything more. “How are you feeling?”
Arthur blinks again before answering. “Okay. Why am I --?” He breaks off, but Merlin doesn’t need the rest of his question to answer it.
“You fell this morning. In the kitchen. Morgana had to call the paramedics.”
Arthur closes his eyes. “My God, I actually swooned?” He sounds a little self-deprecating, a little attempting-to-be-humorous, and a lot too-tired-to-hide-it.
Merlin swallows. “The doctors are pretty confident it was a small seizure. So not really a swoon, if that helps any.”
It doesn’t, and Merlin knows this, but Arthur smiles anyway. “Thanks. Anything for my already-wounded ego, right?”
“Is your head still hurting? I’ll need to call for Ewan if it is.”
“No, not that I can tell.”
They lapse into silence. Arthur’s eyes are still closed, and his breathing is deep and even, and Merlin thinks he may have slipped back into sleep.
“Merlin?” Or not.
“Hm? What?”
“When I not-swooned. Why did you catch me?”
Merlin’s more than a little confused by the question. He’s not sure why Arthur would even ask to begin with. He’d think the answer would be obvious: he caught Arthur because it’s Arthur, and if there’s anything that terrifies Merlin beyond compare, it’s the thought of watching Arthur slip, of seeing him fall to less than he is meant to be.
He can’t figure out how to put that into words that won’t get him ridiculed, though, so he says nothing. After a minute, Arthur opens his eyes again. They seem clearer now, Arthur’s gaze a bit more up to its normal, piercing standard. He stares at Merlin, and Merlin stares back, both trying to read each other for reasons why. Merlin’s not sure either of them is successful.
Arthur says, “I’m through with waiting, Merlin,” and Merlin thinks for a second that he’s done something very, very wrong by not answering straight away, regardless of how much Arthur would have laughed at him.
“What?”
Arthur blinks again. His eyes are bright, focussed, when he says, “This morning, I felt ready. Unafraid. And I knew, I knew that I didn’t want to wait anymore. It felt like I didn’t have to, and it felt right.”
Merlin’s heart sinks. He knows what Arthur’s referring to, much as he wishes he didn’t, that he couldn’t read Arthur like an open book after so long. The grip he has on Arthur’s hand tightens involuntarily, squeezing and grasping both for the effort of keeping him here and the tangible reminder that it’s working. Arthur’s eyes are closed again, his head lolls against the pillow a bit as the IV drip and exhaustion work to pull him back under, and his voice is slow, dulled, as he says, “I need you to let go, Merlin.”
Merlin drops Arthur’s hand like it’s burning, like it pains him to hold it when the reality is anything but that. He whispers, “Sorry,” and he has never been so glad to pretend he doesn’t know every level of what Arthur means.
The man, or spectre of a man, or whatever he is -- he visited again this morning. Just as he had visited the afternoon before, and the morning before that, and in the dead of night four days ago.
The traveller has seen him up close now, near enough to tell that the man’s eyes are a clear, bright blue, that his skin is pale, that his hair curls around his ears and the corners of his mouth curl into a smirk, an involuntary smile. And the traveller has seen him far enough away that he is merely a smudge of brown in the landscape, an outline of a figure who is nearly dismissible and entirely not.
He always has a message, and it is always the same: Finish it, spoken soft and carried on the wind and echoing in the traveller’s ears.
Finish it. The traveller has never heard the man say anything but those words; he’s beginning to think he never will.
The traveller is also beginning to get frustrated. The man came again, delivered those same words, and the traveller is no closer to understanding what they mean. A storm is forming on the farthest point on the horizon; he can smell it in the air and feel it in the dirt, in how the path under his feet is almost quivering with excitement, little rocks and handfuls of dust scattering on every gust of wind.
A storm is coming, and the traveller is lost in something for the first time in his life, even as he presses forward in the only direction he knows.
Part Three