Paroniria (5/5)

[arirawrs]

( Part 4)

Merlin stares up at the sky before turning to Arthur. The sky doesn't compare. When he speaks it’s soft, words that aren’t meant to be heard but are anyway; words said not in a rage, but in resignation. Those words that he’s heard a million times by disapproving voices that echoed for years in his head and heart. “There’s no ‘we.’ My time is running out.” There’s silence; it’s angry, burning cold in its hurt.

“There always was. For me. And if, well, if…” Arthur huffs, running a hand through his hair. “Just…go to sleep, will you, Merlin? I want answers when you wake up. I- You said you wouldn’t lie to me anymore. You promised.” Arthur’s eyes are so blue in the morning light. His face is more wrinkled than Merlin remembers, and a little older. Arthur has a dusting of a beard along his jaw, the same color as the pale lashes that now rest on golden tanned cheeks.

Merlin knows he promised; he knows he promised never to lie to Arthur again after Merlin finally showed Arthur his magic. Well, Merlin had virtually no say in the matter anyway, no possible way he could have distracted Arthur in any other. It had been a month since Uther’s death and Arthur was having a bad day. Lancelot had returned that morning and Gwen had run to him from Arthur’s side. Only Merlin remained, standing behind his king as Arthur watched Gwen welcome the knight home. Arthur had stormed into his chambers that night so quickly Merlin hadn’t even the time to stop the armor from cleaning itself and the sword from sharpening on its own. Then the yelling began, the swearing, the loud clanging as Arthur threw his gauntlets at the wall - his crown onto the ground. Merlin froze, his fingers stilled from mending the tear in Arthur’s shirt. “A-Arthur?” He tried, his tongue feeling too big and clumsy for the fragility of the moment - of Arthur.

His king turned to him, his eyes a steel blue with the sheen of unshed tears. “How can I help?” Merlin felt the words fall from his lips. Those were his first words, not ‘what’s wrong,’ or ‘what happened.’ Those things didn’t matter; Merlin would help his king no matter why or when, only how. Arthur didn’t stop throwing things as the tears streaked down his face, torrents of all the pent up sadness and anger that had been festering deep inside of him. Merlin didn’t try to stop him either, like others would. He knew what it felt like to want to break something, to want to fracture something beautiful in two. The sorcerer was almost tempted to tell Arthur, ‘Wait, you’re already breaking something.’ He was tempted to lay Arthur’s head on his chest and say, ‘There. Can’t you hear it cracking?’

It was only when Arthur opened the windows, and gods he had the set of knives Uther gave him for his ninth birthday, that Merlin caught his hands with his own. Their breathing was ragged and Merlin had to pry the knives from Arthur’s hands, leaving both of their fingers red and bloody as he tossed them aside. Arthur’s eyes were glued on the city and his people below them, smiling and laughing around the village fires, singing and dancing. When Merlin saw Gwen pull Lancelot into her arms and twirl them both around the flames, pressed closer together than friends really should, the sorcerer caught his king’s eyes. Merlin couldn’t seem to breathe as his eyes grew golden and the stars above them glittered, mirrored copies appearing above his outstretched fingertips.

Merlin did stupid little things then, things that always brought him comfort when he was younger. Merlin formed dragons, knights, and wizards out of the stars; his designs reflected perfectly in the night sky. Arthur said nothing. His gaze alternated between Merlin’s eyes, the stars in his hands, and those in the sky. It was only later, after Merlin had begun to relax, that Arthur’s eyes began to droop and his posture slouched from standing so long that Merlin pulled them both to the bed. He tucked Arthur in, and he was almost tempted to press a kiss to the blond’s forehead. He didn’t. When Merlin made to leave, a calloused hand grabbed his. Merlin’s very heart seemed to stop beating, but he calmed himself and turned to gaze at his king. Arthur has risen up on his elbows now, his eyes everywhere but on Merlin’s. Arthur’s voice was quiet when he spoke, but Merlin’s heart was loud enough for them both.

“Can you make a unicorn?”

The sorcerer slid in next to Arthur, and that night, with stars shining in the dark canopy of the bed, he drew pictures in the stars for them both. “Yeah,” Merlin had said, his grin wide and happy. “For you, Arthur? Anything.” He had meant it; along with the promise he made to his king the next morning, with Arthur’s head on his chest.
*

Merlin blinks; there’s that cracking in his chest again. “I know I did, Arthur, but I also promised someone that I’d do anything and everything I could to keep your sorry arse safe.”

Arthur shifts closer, and this time he sits cross-legged by Merlin’s side, reaching out hesitantly to smooth the bunched blankets across Merlin’s shoulders. When he doesn’t move away, Arthur leaves it there. The sorcerer can practically hear the blond thinking. “Who?” At Merlin’s raised eyebrow, Arthur blushes. “I mean… Who did you promise?”

Their eyes catch and hold when Merlin answers, “Me. I promised myself.” Arthur is quiet, his palm rubbing circles into Merlin’s shoulder subconsciously, even though it’s the only thing Merlin can notice.

“Sleep now, Merlin. We have time.”

And this time when the sorcerer closes his eyes, he does.

When Merlin opens his eyes, the light is almost blinding. The sorcerer hears that delicious hum of the place between sleep and waking, and Merlin can’t help but marvel at how rested he feels. How completely awake. Merlin’s mind travels and he realizes he doesn’t remember a thing - not a single memory from when he fell asleep. Merlin lurches awake, the feeling of a glamour-stripped body searing into his consciousness. Who knows how long it has been since it had faded? Merlin scrambles for his pack, searching for the rock he had charmed reflective. When he finds it, he lets out a sigh of relief, his shaking fingers clenched tightly around the rough stone. When the sorcerer raises it to look at himself, he sees the dark beneath his eyes the-

Somebody steps out of the forest, right behind him, and for a second all he can see is blue. Arthur smiles and his light blue eyes twinkle as his gloved fingers ruffle Merlin’s hair and hold the mirror, their fingers intertwined. “See? All you needed was a little sleep.”

“Yeah,” Merlin breathes, his lips twitching upwards. “Yeah.”

They leave camp not long after, Merlin and his king on the road again. They ride close together. Arthur pokes Merlin in the side whenever he lags too far behind and makes a habit of throwing apples or whatever edible item he manages to find, yelling, “People are going to think I starve you. Eat, damn you, eat!” But Merlin honestly doesn’t mind. He just laughs and teases the king right back.

“But I do starve, sire! You leave no food for the rest of us.” Arthur glowers and chucks a berry at him that goes soaring above Merlin’s head and into the bushes as the horses continue to trudge along.

“I am not fat,” Arthur declares pompously. But Merlin can see the smile twitching at the corner of his pink lips.

The sorcerer merely smirks. “I never said you were. Besides, maybe if you were a better shot…” Another berry comes flying and hits Merlin square in the cheek. He laughs, catching it and holding it out to Seb, who sniffs at it and deems it uninteresting. She curls quickly back to sleep in his pocket. Merlin shrugs and pops the berry into his mouth. He smiles at Arthur as he chews, who simply rolls his eyes, his cheeks flushed. Merlin knew Arthur only pretended to miss anyway.

When they pass a village they see a farmer with a stature not unlike Percival’s and Arthur coughs, catching Merlin’s eye pointedly. Merlin raises his eyebrows at his king, who is making these vague hand gestures around his arm and chest. The sorcerer never did understand those bloody signals. Arthur sighs, slapping an open palm to his forehead. That really doesn’t help Merlin understand anything because frankly, the gesture’s more worthy of Merlin. “I mean… that farmer has um… he has quite… his muscles are quite… nice, don’t you think?” Merlin glares at the blond, and quite pointedly ignores his squawk of, “What did I say? What did I say?” when he sends Archie to blow fire around Arthur’s head.

This continues every time the pair passes a village. The king points out a passing man’s attribute that results in an array of magical punishments from a personal raincloud following over Arthur’s head, to turning his armor pink. Arthur coughs, and Merlin groans out loud; he knows what’s coming. But internally, Merlin is pleased and smiling, and not only a little bit amused. It’s interesting to say the least, to keep Arthur guessing as to just what sort of man he likes. “He has nice hair,” Arthur says, oh so very subtly as he points the man out with his sword.

“Put that down!” Merlin says frantically, seeing the suspicious glances they’re getting now.

“What are you- Oh!” Arthur laughs sheepishly, slipping his sword back into its sheath. “Oops.” He glances around at the rude gazes and then back at Merlin’s pointed one. He puffs out his chest and sits up straighter. “We can take ‘em!” Merlin rolls his eyes, but the smile playing on his features is blatantly obvious. His gaze is drawn back to the man pointed out, and it doesn’t go unnoticed. The man is blond, his hair looking almost gold in the sunlight, but not quite. From behind Merlin could almost mistake the man for Arthur. Almost. Arthur’s hair was more… more… just more. When he turns back to his king, Arthur’s eyes betray his curiosity.

Merlin shrugs indifferently. “It’s okay,” he says. “I’ve seen better.” And if the sorcerer’s eyes slide purposefully to Arthur’s own beautiful hair, well, it’s hardly Merlin’s fault. The king’s cheeks are flushed and his smile wide and oddly sappy. Merlin really can’t help what he says next as he drives Iggy into a faster trot. “Gwaine’s hair is lovely.” The indignant huff and following sounds of grumbling and ‘bloody Gwaine’ behind him are unmistakable, and Merlin laughs out loud.

When they stop for the night, it’s at a lake. The water is the very tint of an evening, blue-grey sky that Merlin loves so much. Iggy and Hengroen are grazing close, and all the sorcerer has to do is reach out to brush his fingers on her smooth downy coat. When they build the fire that evening, they build it closer than they had been before; this time Merlin and Arthur even sit next to each other. They eat well too, with the fish Merlin caught (well, that Arthur caught. Merlin was in the water and they swam right up! It was barbaric) and the assorted berries Merlin managed to find. So it is with a full belly and a heart full of laughter that Arthur decides to corner Merlin. The king always did seem to have some sort of scheme up his sleeve after all.

“Merlin,” Arthur’s voice is warm with friendship, and soft from their close proximity. His eyes beseech Merlin; those eyes make the sorcerer’s breathing quicken and his heart begins a symphony that plays only when Arthur’s around. Merlin is almost sure his heart had composed it especially for Arthur; no other has come close to its likeness. Arthur’s hands move absentmindedly in front of the other as Seb runs across them, an endless race. Archie looks on. “Please,” his king whispers, his lips forming the word like a prayer - a dying man’s last wish. And may the gods help Merlin, because he truly has not a single ray of hope now. The sorcerer has never been one to deny his king anything; not when he asks, and especially not when he asks like this. There’s a burning underneath his tongue before he can even begin to speak, a warning from his magic not to lie, but Merlin barely even acknowledges it. He wants to tell Arthur this; he wants Arthur to know. So Merlin tells him.

He tells Arthur everything, from his inability to sleep, to the magic and the glamours. The sorcerer even tells him about Morgana, Morgause, and Mordred. He tells Arthur about how he had planned to trick Arthur into going back to Camelot and letting himself go on to meet them. Merlin tells Arthur about the poison that is deadly only to him in his very breath. And most importantly, Merlin tells him why he’s going to meet the three in the first place. He sees the betrayal flick across Arthur’s face at the mention of all his lies, of course he does, so this - this he has no choice but to confess.

“I came here for you, Arthur,” Merlin whispers. His voice is altogether too quiet in the heart of evening, with the frogs beginning to sing and the splash of water as birds dive for fish. It’s not night - not yet. “I thought if I joined them, they wouldn’t try to hurt you.” And there it is, the sentence of Merlin’s life. He does all for Arthur, always for Arthur, giving up everything for Arthur. Merlin isn’t even sure how to be angry about it anymore. It’s just life now - his life. The sorcerer can’t help but wonder if this is how Gwaine feels about him. If this is why Gwaine defied Arthur and went looking for Merlin anyway. If this is what keeps Gwaine fighting everyday, fighting Morgana, fighting Morgause, fighting Mordred. Sometimes Gwaine is forced to fight Merlin too, when he is lost in the darkness and doesn’t want to pull and fight his way back out. In those moments, because of this, whatever ‘this’ is, Gwaine fights for Merlin.

Gwaine never loses. Is it because of this? This feeling in the pit of his stomach and in the center of his chest that sometimes hurts so much, Merlin is sure he must be dying.

Merlin isn’t sure what ‘this’ is.

Arthur says nothing and Merlin can see the old Arthur, his young prince who would rage and yell that he didn’t need to be taken care of. Merlin can see him, but only barely, like a reflection of a friend, similar and yet completely different. In some ways though, Arthur hasn’t changed at all. That makes Merlin smile harder than he has in awhile. “You should have told me, Merlin. About all of it,” is all he says, and Merlin can do nothing more than nod, because yes, it is true. When did Arthur get so bloody smart? Was it when Merlin wasn’t looking? But no, Merlin thinks, a small smile playing on his lips - Merlin’s always looking.

“Yes, I should have,” he says, dark blue eyes watching Arthur, his king, his friend, his destiny. “But I’m not sorry for doing what I did.” Arthur raises his eyebrows at this, but Merlin continues. “Nor am I sorry for telling you all of this either.” Arthur meets Merlin’s gaze evenly, his blue eyes peeking past half-lids. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he gulps the water from their skin greedily. Rivulets of water meandering down his tan skin, their paths delayed by long fair hairs and Merlin cannot help but wonder if they are smooth to the touch. The sorcerer tears his gaze away from his king and forces himself to watch the lavender and bluebells sway in the breeze; he can almost hear the carillons ringing.

“I’m glad you’re not. You shouldn’t be. I… I tell you everything, Merlin.” There is a pause and then, “Well, not everything.” Another pause, and Merlin really can’t keep his eyes from trailing back to Arthur, whose flushed gaze darts away. Arthur is looking at his boots now. “I used to,” is what the king says, his crown laying somewhere on some pillow beside some woman. Merlin can’t remember, not when those eyes are looking at him like this.

“Not anymore?” The sorcerer asks, their eyes catching together and seizing, both men not wanting to look away. Not yet, and maybe even not ever. Merlin certainly wouldn’t mind.

“No, not anymore,” Arthur whispers, and he finds that he can’t look away either. Merlin opens his mouth to ask why. His breaths flutter past his pale parted lips, but Arthur beats him to the punch, speaking first. His eyes flicker away to his clenched hands, his fingers wringing themselves together. “Merlin…” He begins, his brow furrowing in concentration as his teeth gnaw at his bottom lip. “How- how did you know you were… that you liked… men?” Arthur takes a deep breath, forcing his eyes to meet Merlin’s again. “I mean- I mean have you… always known?”

Merlin’s eyes widen and he can’t help the blur of shock, joy and that unnamed feeling that shoots through him. He pauses, humming under his breath as he thinks. Merlin isn’t sure how to answer at first, remembering first the blur of excitement of his first kiss.

Her name was Iris, and they were both barely nine years old when they met. Merlin was in the meadow where he always played, making daffodils grow and turning them into little, pale-yellow butterflies that would extinguish like golden flames once they touched skin. There’s a clearing in Ealdor where daffodils grow year round, even in the winter. Iris was a slight girl, small for her age, but that’s all Merlin can remember. He can’t remember the color of her eyes or of her hair. All Merlin remembers was the quick touch of her lips on his, in the view of the entire village, putting the rumors and speculation that he was far more interested in boys than girls to rest immediately.

Not many people knew about their plan behind the kiss though, or that Iris and Merlin had only platonic feelings for each other. Merlin was far more interested in boys, and Iris didn’t see anything wrong with it, so they devised a plan to quell the rumors. Not to mention that Iris had a crush on Will and wanted to make him jealous. Merlin can’t remember if they succeeded or not.

His second kiss was not as successful. The boy - gods, Merlin hasn’t thought about this in ages - his hair was a light brown, his eyes a cold slate of grey. His lips were angry and when Merlin kissed him, the boy had bitten back. It had hurt, but the punch to his jaw after hurt even worse that anything ever had. The rumors started up again not soon after that. The sorcerer jolts from his reverie with a poke in the arm from his king. Arthur’s eyebrows are raised, his gaze searching and curious. Merlin lets out a nervous chuckle, a flush blooming on his pale cheeks.

“Yeah, I guess I always knew but… gender never mattered much to me even back then.” Merlin turns his gaze away from Arthur and onto the lake, where the last ray of sun begins to sink under the weight of the night sky, and with it would come their stars. “I didn’t know what I was searching for,” he says, “so I had to look absolutely everywhere.” Merlin feels a hand on his knee and he turns back to Arthur, his heart pounding in his chest.

“I notice you’ve stopped looking,” Arthur says, trailing off. His silence is a question before he decides to voice it. “Have you found it?” There ‘it’ is again. That feeling he gets when he meets Arthur’s eyes, that burning in his heart and under his tongue that never ceases to subside. Merlin doesn’t lie, not this time.

“Yes,” he whispers, wanting nothing more than to be closer. Nothing more, simply… closer. “Yes, I think I’ve found it.” Merlin breathes, his entire body is angled and aligned with Arthur’s. The burning under his tongue goes away.

Arthur presses his side into Merlin, layers and layers upon fabric and clothes between them. Merlin finds that he wants nothing more than to feel Arthur’s fingers hard on his, Arthur’s tongue on pale, soft skin, and those lips on his own. “Merlin,” his king breathes, and Merlin can feel the warmth of his breath on his cheek. “I think I’ve found it too.”

The cold wind is not a caress this time, but a cool warning - a reminder that what Merlin wants, what he truly needs, can never be. Instead of pressing kisses to his king like he wants to, the sorcerer ducks his head. The words come to his lips, unbidden, but he means every word. “The queen is lucky, sire.”

Arthur flinches away at the formal address, his lips tightening into a mere line. It’s silent, but not for long. When Arthur speaks, his voice is hushed and whispered. Heavy words for the fragile night, to be whispered with the utmost cautions, lest they break it. “It’s not- It's not Guinevere, Merlin.” Merlin’s head snaps up at Arthur’s words and the sorcerer scarcely dares to breathe. “It- It’s you.” Merlin lets the air in his lungs escape, but the minute he begins breathing again, he can’t seem to calm. His breathing becomes shallow and ragged, his mind races. This isn’t their destiny - this shouldn’t have happened. ‘This is wrong’ is all that runs through Merlin’s head, but frankly he doesn’t care anymore. With every beat of his heart Merlin knows this has been inevitable. They have been inevitable from the beginning, no matter who or what drives them apart - even if sometimes they’re the ones pushing the other away. Merlin is so tired of running after Arthur, and running away from him.

His king intertwines their fingers, Merlin’s pale and white against the dark brown of Arthur’s gloves. It’s about time they walked side by side, isn’t it? Arthur lets out a shaky laugh, his blue eyes wide, as if shocked by his own admission. “God help me, but it’s you, Merlin. It’s always been you.”

There’s a series of snaps, and Merlin thinks he really should have expected this. Nothing ever goes right for him anyway; he really isn’t renown for his brilliant luck. Dozens of vines from the weeping willow nearby whip through the air, their soft elfin leaves no longer pretty and innocent as they sway with the wind. The willow’s vines knot themselves around Arthur’s limbs, binding his wrists and legs as they tug him away from Merlin. Arthur lets out a confused shout, his eyes wide in panic. He’s about to call out for Merlin, but Merlin’s eyes are already glowing a fierce gold. His hands and fingers are a blurred flurry as he struggles to tear the vines away. His king lets out a strangled cry as one thick vine wraps around his neck and begins to tighten, cutting off his air. There’s a cool breeze that blows by just then, oh cruel irony. Arthur’s mouth opens and closes, sad, desperate attempts for another second of life. Every time Merlin snaps a series of vines, more raise up to replace them. His anger and panic is growing inside him as he feels the tears prick at his eyes. The sight of Arthur slowly dying right in front of him is almost enough to tear him to shreds. “Arthur!” He cries, his voice ragged. He wants to do more, he has to, but he feels magical binds hold him back.

A voice sounds from the woods and his captors step out from the foliage. “It seems that I was wrong, Merlin. Looks like your little king here wants to kiss you too,” Morgana says, letting out a little laugh. Morgause is smiling, her eyes a permanent gold as she twists vine after vine after vine. Soon they grow thorns that dig into Arthur’s neck, the crimson blood rising to the surface in quick beads. Mordred on the other hand, only watches, his dark eyes cold and unblinking.

“Something’s changed,” Morgana continues, her lips pursing, her eyebrows furrowing as if she’s genuinely confused. “You were going to die, Arthur. Soon. You were going to die cold and alone in a drafty corridor where the servants wouldn’t find you for a week.” The sorcerer struggles to escape his magical binds, and he sees from the corner of his eye that Arthur’s trying to do the same. Blood is trickling down Arthur’s lip as he bites through it in an effort to keep his cries back when the vines grip tighter, the thorns cutting through cloth and into soft skin. Morgana steps closer, her dark velvet dress dragging along the forest floor. Her eyes are different than before, a thin film covers them, dark gold in color.

She notices the sorcerer watching her and smiles sadly. “I’ve seen things in the future, Merlin, and they come with a price, prices that always leave scars. Scars that can sometimes be seen.” The sorcerer shivers; he doesn’t want to imagine the scars that can’t. Morgana peers at him through her golden-film eyes as she comes to a stop right in front of him. Mordred does move then, coming to stand by Merlin’s side, a hand outstretched between his mistress and Merlin. Merlin is puzzled, but he can’t keep the rays of hope from shining through. Maybe Mordred would help them now, maybe everything would be alright. But Mordred barely looks at him. The boy’s eyes are dark and sharp as they gaze at Morgana, and then Morgause.

“No more games.” Mordred’s voice is cold, harsh, and biting, full of command that leaves no room for argument. Morgana and Morgause do not; they step back, Morgause’s eyes returning to their normal color as the vines stop their relentless attack on Arthur’s person. Arthur slumps to the floor, his clothing wet and bloody and sticking to his cold and clammy skin, covered in goosebumps. A raw shout escapes from Merlin just then. The sight of his king lying fallen and broken on the ground - bloody, beaten - snaps something deep inside of the sorcerer. There’s a churning in his gut, that feeling and the pain it inflicts is sharper and more pronounced than ever.

Merlin doesn’t even notice when the binds that hold him slip loose. The sorcerer’s eyes grow gold, his magic slicing out of his very skin and through every pore, expelling and banishing. Tendrils, gold and sharp, flare out of his body. His magic is angry. He feels it bubbling with rage beneath his skin, burning and searing beneath his soft flesh, cauterizing the wounds Morgana’s curses have left on his body and his magic. Merlin feels every dark spell leave his body. The poison drips off his skin and down his cheeks, clean and clear like water. But Merlin knows better. Arthur is quiet under his hands when Merlin reaches him, his very fingertips glowing gold when he touches Arthur’s skin. The very feel of it makes Merlin shudder - the very idea that he can touch Arthur - that a single kiss would not kill him.

Morgana is saying something behind him, her voice growing sharper and higher as her words get more frantic - crazier. Mordred only watches through bored dark eyes, but he isn’t even looking at Morgana. He’s watching Merlin instead. The sorcerer pays no attention as Morgause tries to calm her sister down; he has eyes only for his king. His magic knows what it’s doing before he does, sliding into Arthur’s skin, gentle and warm - healing, mending all that is broken. There’s a buzzing in Merlin’s head, loud but muffled at the same time. He doesn’t pay any mind to the screaming around him, the same screams that have haunted his memories all these nights. All that matters is Arthur, Arthur who is lying too still, too quiet.

Merlin really cannot help but watch as a drop of rain drips down into the corner of his king’s mouth. The sorcerer catches it with his tongue, his lips meeting Arthur’s in a kiss full of warmth, blood, and that feeling that makes his stomach flutter and his hands shake. It’s full of love, a love that Merlin could never dream of replacing. Merlin’s eyes flicker closed, loving - there’s that word again - the feeling of Arthur’s lips cushioned against his. Arthur gasps awake and Merlin pulls away quickly, his cheeks flushing. Arthur’s hands clambers up Merlin’s sides to rest at the base of the sorcerer’s neck. His fingers stretch, luxuriating in the hope and the warm comforting touch of a friend, and maybe a lover. Their eyes lock, and gods, he can feel the love pooling in his chest, the very thing keeping his heart beating.

Arthur lets out a soft laugh, a mere exhale of breath but still so misplaced in a time such as this. Their eyes meet, blue on blue, but they both stay silent; there are really no words left to be said. No words they could say would ever be enough, and those three words that come a little closer than the rest do not belong to Merlin, or to Arthur. The sorcerer and his king love each other too much to say them, for they will lose so much they have worked so hard to gain. Those words are already somebody else’s, to others who have earned them with years of tears and heartache. Merlin and Arthur do not deserve them, not yet. Arthur’s belongs to Guinevere, and Merlin’s belongs to… Well, the sorcerer has a good idea who. Those words don’t belong to them yet, but hopefully, in another lifetime, they will. So in this one they do what they always do - what they always have - because it’s the thing that keeps them going, that they fight for. It’s the only thing they have left to do. They fight.

Arthur gets up from the ground, his sword screaming for penance as he unsheathes her. Her blade is thirsty and hungry for blood to replace her master’s own. Merlin’s magic is like it in many ways. The tendrils are sharp and smooth, golden blades of a warrior, weapons of a knight marching against destiny. The pair, together again (have they ever been apart?), whirl on their enemies: their friends, the people they trusted before everything went wrong. Before Merlin and Arthur understood the word ‘betrayal.’

Morgause stands in front of her sister, the black lamb who got led astray, and tries to protect her. The blonde’s spells are routine and Merlin is almost bored until he sees Arthur charge at her from the corner of his eye. She tries to send him flying backwards, but Merlin keeps him upright as Arthur’s sword begins to dance, her blade winking seductively to all enemies who dare venture too close. Merlin faces Morgana, his own magic colliding with hers.

“He will die, Merlin - he will die because you will not be there to save him,” Morgana hisses through white teeth gritted behind venomous red lips.

“I’ll never leave him,” Merlin says right back. He feels no shame for the neediness both his magic and he have, the constant need to be around Arthur, to care for him and love him. “Cume thoden,” Merlin cries, and the wind begins to pick up. The word barely grazes past his throat when the ground begins to rock and crack. The trees shudder and the lake pulsates as the waves lap onto the shore, higher and higher. The whirlwind is as much of a distraction as keeping Morgana talking, so he continues, his words dripping off of his lips before he can think of something better.

“You will have no choice, Merlin. You will have to do so soon enough. Help us, Merlin. Help us, and we could move the stars together.” The sorcerer’s eyes narrow and harden to a dark, steel blue.

There’s a shriek that sounds from behind him and then he sees a flash of red, and then blonde. Morgana lets out scream, her fingers thrown open, magic flowing off her fingertips as her eyes glow completely gold. She flings it at Merlin, but it does nothing but fall into the ground. The soil sinks the magic in slowly, the gold falls into the ground like rain after the clouds had gone. Poison begins to fall from the sky just then, colorless and wet; Merlin has to remind himself that its just rain. The sorcerer keeps his mouth shut anyway - you never know.

“I move the stars for no one,” is what Merlin says as he watches his king holding Morgause at the point of his blade. His brow is caked with blood and his skin is peppered with dark bruises. Morgause fares far worse. He recognizes the beginning of Morgana’s scream before she has the chance to curse him; he’s used to the sound after so many nights with it as his only companion. It doesn’t take much after that, when Merlin thinks back on it, just the simple bending of his will. It’s a poison he wishes into existence, a poison deadly only to the one with the deadliest intentions in her heart. The rain falls. So does poison.

The thud is soft and muted behind Morgause’s scream, and Merlin can’t help but wince at the sound - so much louder and hoarse than Morgana’s were. The blond is sobbing, swearing at Arthur and his sorcerer as she promises to exact her revenge. Merlin isn’t usually so cruel, but when he sees her fingernail dig and tear into the skin of Arthur’s leg, the sorcerer cannot help the words that fall from his lips - like poison. “It was her very own personal brand of poison, Morgause. Aren’t you proud?” Arthur catches his gaze, and Merlin falls silent. The sorcerer understands what Arthur means; there is no need to be cruel. He and Arthur had won, and they had not. There was no more need of sharp words to torture and inflict pain. Merlin feels a little guilty - just a little.

“Do you yield?” He hears Arthur ask, his voice impartial, his face a calm mask. Morgause ignores him though, instead beginning to rise to her feet with eyes growing golden where she is undoubtedly trying to cast a spell. There’s a rustle not a second later and another voice rings through the air. A voice Merlin had forgotten was there at all.

“She will yield,” Mordred says as he walks out of the forest. The boy places a hand on Morgause’s shoulder and she freezes, as if stunned. Mordred’s eyes betray nothing though, as he scrutinizes Arthur and turns finally to Merlin. The sorcerer hears Mordred’s voice inside his head. Invisible fingers, thin and soft, trail down his neck and cheek. “Goodbye, Emrys. I know that someday, we’ll meet again.” The boy smiles at him, lips curving upwards slightly before he jerks his head towards the forest, and Morgause rises as if on cue. Merlin can’t help the goosebumps that rise on his skin or the shiver that racks his body. Mordred begins to walk away when Arthur calls out to him.

“Mordred, do you yield?” Arthur’s brow is quirked at the boy, puzzled and more than a little curious.

Mordred only smiles in response, his sharp teeth peeking out from behind his lips. “You know my name,” He says first, sounding almost pleasant. “It will serve you well to remember it, King Arthur.” He makes to move again, but stops and turns back to Merlin and Arthur slightly. “Of course not, Arthur. How much fun would that be?” Mordred tilts his head, dark eyes wide and unblinking, before both he and Morgause are gone.

There’s a pause. The camp seems so empty now, the carcass of an enemy - an old friend - lays on the ground. For that is how Morgana should he remembered, as an old friend and not an enemy. Merlin sighs, moving towards the body, and Arthur and Merlin do what is right. It’s all too familiar, a dark haired girl in a boat, a girl he had once loved a long time ago. A boat is lit on fire as it floats into the center of the lake, and there it will sink into the abyss. But for now, Morgana is bright and beautiful like she once was. For now, the flame bright on the backdrop of black sky - Morgana is a star.



Merlin and Arthur huddle close in the campsite, their legs intertwined for warmth, their fingers tightly clenched together as they both revel in the sheer proximity of it all. It’s beautiful, but it hurts a little to know that this won’t be for much longer. They will be friends though, they will keep everything else they have gained and every moment will be treasured. They love each other too much to ever let this get between them, especially when they both know it cannot be. Not in this lifetime - but maybe another. They speak, hushed and quiet in the night, as they watch the last of the embers float up into the sky and then down onto the water - extinguished. “Why didn’t you kill him?” Merlin asks, his face buried in the nape of Arthur’s neck, warm and comfortable.

Arthur pauses before he speaks. His fingers still in Merlin’s hair briefly before continuing their gentle combing of his dark locks. “Did you want me to?”

Merlin blinks, the flames bright even behind his eyelids. He has to consider the question for a second longer, but when he answers he knows it’s the truth. “No, but I would have.”

Arthur merely hums, his lips ghosting the top of Merlin’s head. “Because there’s always a chance they’ll learn from the mercy I’ve shown them, and continue in kind.”

Merlin expects this sort of answer. Of course he does. Brave, noble, disgustingly beautiful, Arthur. When the sorcerer speaks next, his voice is even quieter and the king has to strain his ears to hear. “If I told you, you will fall by his hands - would you change your mind?”

Arthur is silent, and he stops his combing of Merlin’s hair, content to rest his cheek on the soft smooth hair. “That depends,” the king replies, luxuriating in the warmth of Merlin’s body beside his own - a luxury he hasn’t had in far too long. The sorcerer’s silent ‘on what?’ does not go unheard, and Arthur answers. “On if you’ll be there to catch me.”

Merlin stills, and when he pulls away his eyes are filled with a million things that these two cannot say - things that they cannot say yet. Merlin presses a soft kiss to the corner of Arthur’s mouth, where his king turns his head to pillow them together, soft and warm, making memories for colder nights alone. “Always,” Merlin murmurs onto Arthur’s lips, and for a second the sorcerer is afraid the king hasn’t heard him. But when Arthur pulls away his eyes are wet and his lips are pulled into that smile that makes Merlin’s heart play that symphony.

“Then no, I wouldn’t,” Arthur replies. The sorcerer and his king pull each other close that night, soft chaste kisses and indulgent stroking of soft skin. That night, Merlin and Arthur fall asleep together, wrapped up in a world entirely their own. Above them, their stars sing of their love.



There are happy squeaks as Merlin sets Seb down on the familiar stone floor, the scratching of her nails sound as she scurries off. Archie simply looks up at him from his perch on Merlin’s shoulder with a look as if to say ‘there is no way you are putting me down on that filthy floor, you pathetic human.’ Merlin rolls his eyes and Archie yawns, his wooden wings taking to the air not a minute later. The dragon flies off into Merlin’s room where he will probably join Seb in her slumber in Merlin’s hat. As much as Archie likes to act like he doesn’t like the little mouse, Merlin knows better. Archie’s very protective of Seb, going so far as to blow fire at a stranger when they get too close her. The sorcerer can’t help but think that as nonchalant as Archie acts, he has quite a big crush on Seb.

Merlin smiles and leans against his door, the familiar texture and bumps digging into the soft skin of his back. The sorcerer walks through the room slowly, his gaze and fingers dropping onto the little things that he’s missed. The small cot lies in the small alcove, the cot Gaius had slept on from the beginning to the very end. Merlin runs his fingers across the tables, the light powdering of dust coating his fingertips. The sorcerer begins to spell the room clean, the papers righting themselves and floating off the floor - his magic hasn’t worked so flawlessly in a long time. The golden vines loop around his wrists, caressing the soft skin there gently. His magic begins to stray over to the door, meandering away from their task and prodding at the crack beneath it. The sorcerer feels his heart swell; well, his magic certainly has personality, Merlin can give it that. “I know,” Merlin whispers, his fingers petting the gold tendrils that light warm sparks beneath his fingertips. “I miss him too.” There’s that twinkling of bells again, and Merlin hides a smile, his teeth gnawing on his lower lip to keep the huge grin from breaking across his face. “Don’t worry. We’ll be okay, you and I. We’ll be by his side, protecting him, just like we always have.” The wisps of magic return to their master after they’ve completed their task, sliding back under his skin and curling up around his heart, where the memories and feelings of their king lay. There, Merlin’s magic grows and thrives.

The sorcerer sighs as the warmth sinks into his skin, sending butterflies into his tummy, not unlike the way Arthur makes him feel. The ride back to Camelot had been a solemn one, before Merlin had nearly pushed Arthur off his horse in frustration. There they were, wasting the time they had together - he couldn’t let it go on. Merlin didn’t want to waste another minute. Their four-day ride back to Camelot was drawn out for as long as they dared. Mornings were filled with gentle kisses and caresses, afternoons filled with sun, swimming, riding, and eventually hunting. (Merlin tried to put it off as long as he could). Merlin feels closer to Arthur than he’s ever been.

“I’m sorry I stole Iggy. She’s the only one who doesn’t try to buck me off,” Merlin had said sheepishly, his face heating at Arthur’s amused gaze.

“Not that I blame them. You’re a horrid rider, Merlin,” Arthur had teased. Merlin pouted, which led to Arthur kissing him until the smile returned to his lips. Of course Merlin didn’t mind, and it wasn’t long till Merlin was laughing against his king’s lips as Arthur’s fingers fell to Merlin’s side, tickling him. “I gave her to you for a reason, Merlin,” Arthur said breathlessly, but when Merlin tried to speak, his king shot him a look. The sorcerer had seen that look many times, whenever Arthur tried to let Merlin in deeper inside and past his defenses, whenever Merlin’s babbling came close to making Arthur lose his nerve. Few are truly let in, after all.

“Mother acquired Iggy for me before I was born. She was supposed to be mine by the time I could ride. Mother… she wanted me to always have a piece of her with me, wherever I went, so that I could always return to her swiftly and safely.” Arthur’s gaze dropped lower and lower as he spoke until Merlin’s unable to catch his eyes at all. The sorcerer felt his insides warm and his cheeks pink. All he wanted to do was kiss his king happy, he knows not all of their problems could be fixed so easily - yet many could. Merlin’s fingers drew shapes and words on the palm of Arthur’s hand, soft pretty words that neither dared say.

“I gave her to you because… because maybe I hoped she’d bring you home to me safely too.” Arthur caught Merlin’s eyes and his cheeks blushed. “I’m sorry, it-it was stupid,” Arthur mumbled, ducking his head. Merlin let out the breath he was holding, that feeling shot through his body with every beat of his heart. The sorcerer said nothing, simply pulling his idiot to him and kissing him senseless. Merlin loves the feel of Arthur’s smiling lips against his own - he’d have it no other way.

Merlin liked nights with Arthur best. They’d lay together, warm as everything concerning Arthur seemed to be, and they’d whisper their dreams out into the night with their stars shining bright - they always looked close enough to catch. They talked about their dreams (each other, another chance, more time) until Merlin could dream again. The sorcerer dreams in black and white, of an Arthur made up of shades of grey with eyes such a lack of color it gave Merlin shivers. His touch is cold, lacking the warmth that the real Arthur has. But when Merlin woke, the first thing he saw is the bright blue of Arthur’s beautiful eyes, smiling down at him as he leans in for a kiss. Warm.

Their last kiss wasn’t far from the gates of Camelot, shaded by ferns that grow on the branches of towering trees. They leaned in for a single kiss, and one alone. Being that they were so close to Camelot, the guilt had begun to set in, the guilt that came with their betrayals: to Guinevere, to Gwaine, and even to Morgana, but most of all, their betrayal to themselves, to all they could have had. “This can’t happen again,” is what Arthur said in the shadows with Merlin, under the protections of the ferns. The sorcerer thinks he remembers his mother telling him that ferns are the protectors of secrets, but most of all, of secrets loves. Merlin used to think they were his friends; they protected secrets, and he had many to keep.

“It won’t,” is what Merlin said in reply, and if his voice cracked and his eyes watered, well, they were passing out of the shade now, and people could see. Arthur said nothing, so Merlin just blinked them away, dropping Iggy back to ride behind the king.

Arthur turned to look at him, eyes confused for a second, and then soft with that feeling neither of them should name. “You ride with me, Merlin, remember?” The sorcerer does.

Merlin and Arthur were greeted grandly with ‘my lord’ and ‘sire’ as they entered, and Merlin smiled when he saw Gwen sneaking in to the castle from the side. Her hand held her crown to her head while the other held up the folds of her skirt. The queen had soot from the coals in the blacksmith’s on her cheek, and Merlin could see the char on the end of her sleeve. The sorcerer bit the bottom of his lip nervously then before pausing at the doors to the throne room. Arthur paused, breaking his stride as he watched Merlin with concerned eyes. The king’s mouth opened to ask, but Merlin stopped him with a smile.

“I’m alright. I just need to take care of something first.” Arthur’s eyebrows furrowed for a second, his eyes sharp as if trying to tell if Merlin is telling the truth, but it isn’t a moment later before Arthur gave him a curt nod and entered the throne room alone. Merlin felt his body lurch forward, and he had to pull himself back, shocked at the yearning in his chest for Arthur’s presence. This was how things had to be - there was no other way. They could be friends, or nothing. Merlin and Arthur could never be lovers, not here, and definitely not now. The sorcerer clenched his fingers; his eyes squeezed shut at the unfairness of it all. No matter how much Merlin knows that this is his destiny, to be at Arthur’s side - the unseen, unfelt protector - it hurts. It hurts so much because Merlin wants to be so much more. But he can’t.

Merlin heard the slapping of slippers on the stone floor coming to a stop right in front of him before a hesitant, cautious voice spoke. “Merlin?”

The sorcerer opened his eyes, prepared to paste on the fake smile that he always wore, but he was surprised to find he slipped easily back into his trademark grin. Gwen’s face was shocked, but merely for a second before she grinned cautiously back. Merlin took her hand in his and began to fix the burnt material of her sleeve. “I saw you sneaking back into the castle, my lady,” was all Merlin said.

Gwen let out a soft laugh, her cheeks dusting lightly with pink. “You know how much I like the blacksmith’s, Merlin. I never have gotten used to all of…” She made a vague gesture with her hands around her as Merlin smiled, wiping the soot off her cheek. Her dark eyes watched him, her lips twitched into a bittersweet smile. “You’ve changed. We both have.”

It was a simple statement, a true one at that, but Merlin couldn’t keep the sad pangs that echoed in his heart. “We have, but maybe… maybe some things can return to the way they were.” The sorcerer smiled at his queen, fixing her crown and hair with his gentle delicate fingers.

The queen bit her bottom lip, her hands wrung in between them. “I hope so, Merlin.” It is then that there’s that unmistakable ring of armor - a knight walking - and the queen and sorcerer grinned at each other, thinking about a time long ago where they joked about knights sounding like little tin men.

A familiar face rounded the corner - Lancelot. His eyes burned into Gwen’s, a smile lit up his face before he saw Merlin and his eyes fell back to their previous guarded stare. “My queen. My lord.” Lancelot greeted when he neared, before heading into the throne room, his eyes fixed determinedly ahead.

Merlin was quiet, thinking, before he finally spoke, “He still loves you.”

Gwen nodded. “Yes.”

Merlin ran his fingers down the beautiful curls in Gwen’s dark hair. When he spoke, it was only a guess, his voice a venture. “And… you love him?”

Gwen was silent, her eyes darting elsewhere, and for a minute Merlin wondered if that was all the answer he was going to get, but then Gwen looks up, her eyes dripping tears. “Yes. Yes, I do.” She began to sob then, and Merlin was left with nothing but to gather her up into his arms, soothing down her hair with his hands. Betrayal isn’t new in the walls of Camelot, and neither is a love scorned - these are familiar in the hearts of many. Merlin wonders when all of them had gotten so lost, so stuck in the light that it’s blinded them all from what they truly want - from what would make them happy.

“I understand,” Merlin whispered, tears slipped from his own eyes.

Gwen pulled away just then, far away enough to look into her old friend’s eyes. The eyes of the man she trusted with her entire life - the eyes of whom she trusts. “Oh, Merlin. You love him.” It wasn’t a question, so he didn’t answer, only held his friend closer. Every tear was an apology, every question a confession. “What do we do?” It was a rhetorical question of course, because there’s nothing they can do. They care for their lovers too much.

Merlin stroked hair away from Gwen’s face awhile later. The tears subsided, and Merlin felt the warm hum of friendship ring inside him when she threatened him to call her Gwen again. Apparently the queen wasn’t above blackmail. (Supposedly Merlin hadn’t known where a helmet went when he first came to Camelot - but he highly doubted that. Gwen obviously was exaggerating it all. Obviously).

Merlin and Gwen clenched their fingers tightly together, their secrets held inside each other just as tight. Merlin wondered if there should have been ferns everywhere. “You ready?” He asked, and Gwen nodded. For a minute, they were simply Merlin the manservant and Gwen the blacksmith’s daughter again. For a minute, they were who they were supposed to be, who they wanted to be, in a world where everyone had choices and made the right ones. And then Merlin was the sorcerer and Gwen was the queen again, but still they smiled. They did what they all do best, what they’ve always done best. They will fight for the futures they will have. They will fight for that feeling in their chests when they see that one person from across the room. They will all fight for fallen friends and the beautiful memories they all once had. They will fight for love. They will fight for love and they won’t be afraid.

*

Merlin remembers the conversation with fondness as he heads up the little stairs to his chambers, and what he sees makes his insides burn with warmth. The sorcerer can’t help but wonder where all the cold that was inside of him has gone. Merlin smiles down at his knight, his friend, his protector. Gwaine is curled up on Merlin’s bed, fast asleep, the circles under his eyes are darker than ever. Merlin traces them with his fingertips. Gwaine deserves so much more than a friend with a heart that didn’t want to beat, so much more than a friend who didn’t want it to. The sorcerer traces his laugh lines, and brushes the long strands of curly brown hair from his face. It doesn’t take much else for Gwaine to blink his eyes sleepily, dark eyes widening the minute he sees his friend.

“Merlin! You-you’re back! Are you okay? Are you hurt? Have you-” The sorcerer is laughing, a light happy sound that Gwaine hasn’t heard in years. The sound makes his heart beat in a rhythm he knows too well. “You look…” Gwaine is reaching out, his fingertips brushing the side of Merlin’s cheek, as if to convince himself that this isn’t a dream - that Merlin is real. How many times had Gwaine dreamt of this?

“Like I just defeated an evil sorceress and slept on the forest floor for days? Because I have, you know.” Merlin teases, poking Gwaine’s side, but the knight is having none of it.

Gwaine shoos Merlin’s hands away, his voice dropping to a whisper as he speaks. “You defeated…?” Merlin nods, and Gwaine shakes his head as if to clear it. “Good on you, mate. You look… you look like you again.” Gwaine smiles up at him, his lips pulled wide and those laugh lines are back again.

Merlin can only laugh, and he leans forward to hug Gwaine to him, his eyes shutting as he holds his best friend in his arms. “You’re my best friend,” Merlin says, letting go and pulling away, his lips pulled up in a smile. A smile that Arthur hasn’t gotten to see yet, tinged with nervousness and the fear of a sentiment not returned. A smile Arthur will never get to see, not in this lifetime. A smile that Gwaine has won, a smile that Gwaine has fought for. “I love you, Gwaine.” The words are light in his mouth and on his tongue; Merlin can’t help but imagine that this is what sunshine tastes like. Gwaine is blushing, his cheeks turning a bright pink and he ducks his gaze away from Merlin’s.

When the knight speaks, Merlin can’t help but notice it’s hoarse and raw. “Oh, you complete sap, Merlin.” The knight proceeds to force Merlin’s head under his arm to ruffle his hair, and then to tickle him to within an inch of his life. Later, when Merlin’s collapsed laughing on the mattress that Gwaine had pulled into his room, and said knight is lounging on his bed, Merlin asks him a question, his voice breathy with laughter.

“What were you dreaming of?” Merlin asks, looking up at his friend. “When I came in that is,” he adds.

Gwaine’s dark eyes watch him for a moment before he flops down on his back on Merlin’s back, their eye contact breaking. Merlin does the same. “Pheasants.”

A small smile cradles Merlin’s lips and the words fall off his tongue without much persuasion. “Was it a good dream?”

There’s silence, and then, “Yeah.”

“Good.” Merlin closes his eyes, snuggling into his pillow. The fabric is soft against his cheek and Merlin can hear the sounds of his friends around him. Seb is squeaking softly in her sleep, Archie is breathing deeply, his little wooden body expanding with every breath as smoke rises from his nostrils. And Gwaine... Gwaine’s snores are soft, quiet snuffles in the room, and Merlin honestly doesn’t mind. The noises swirl together, a warm lullaby to send the sorcerer off to sleep.

Mother - Merlin thinks, his last coherent thought as he slips into sleep - was wrong. This is what it feels like to be immortal, to live. It matters not what the stars think, for they sing only of the moments that live on inside his heart. The moments that Merlin decides are worthy to be kept. His moments with Seb, Archie, Iggy, Gaius, his mother, Will, Gwen, Gwaine, even Morgana will be kept; Merlin will keep everyone. Most of all, Merlin will keep Arthur. He will keep Arthur deep inside himself, inside his heart, for the stars will not be alone in their song. Merlin and his magic shall sing of this. He will care for Arthur, and protect him, always standing by his side. But if his heart will keep beating for the both them, if his breath will still catch in his throat when the candle lights up Arthur’s face…he doesn’t need to know that.

But he will. One day.



Epilogue

Merlin feels cool pillows against his face, but his body is warm beneath the sheets. His legs are intertwined with someone else’s. Their hands are wrapped tightly around his waist, his own thrown haphazardly above his head and across the other’s chest. Merlin blinks lazily, confused at the blaring song ringing through the air. A grumble passes his lips and Merlin buries his face into a warm shoulder. There’s a groan from next to him and Merlin simply elbows him in the side. “It’s your turn to hit snooze, Merlin.” He hears and his eyes open to the familiar voice. Arthur is looking back at him, his eyes bleary with sleep. The song keeps playing in the background as Arthur pushes close to press a kiss to Merlin’s lips, their mouths pillowed soft and warm together, the very essence of a good morning. When he pulls away, Merlin is smiling, but Arthur is back to turning to his side, throwing a pillow over his head. “I told you the runaway alarm clock was a bad idea.”

Merlin leans back into the pillows for a second, that feeling pooling in the pit of his stomach as his heart conducts its symphony. The words slip past his lips, and he sees Arthur smile. “I love you too, you lazy oaf. Now go turn that bloody thing off, and come back to bed. I miss you.” And how could Merlin deny Arthur that? He’s never really been good at denying him anything, if he’s telling the truth. Besides, Merlin wants to hold Arthur close and not let him go until morning - if then.

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart
(i carry it in my heart)
e e cummings