Paroniria (1/5)

[arirawrs]

Paroniria

“Men heap together the mistakes of their lives,
and create a monster they call Destiny.”
John Oliver Hobbes

Merlin smiles, he is happy for them - he truly is. Merlin is so good at burying his feelings deep down inside himself, sometimes he forgets they’re there at all. Sometimes. But other times, all the time, Merlin is walking around half the person he used to be. Not even a full half. He had picked up and saved every shard of himself he could, and managed to fit himself together and piece back what fragile version of himself he had left. Though he was still filled with cracks and sharp jagged pieces left untended and unsmoothed.

But still Merlin smiles, he always smiles, just like he used to. Still no one notices, no one sees the way his smile falters and slips when he thinks no one is looking. His face crumples and his speed picks up as he rounds a corner and collapses against a wall, sobbing. Merlin’s hands are the only things holding him upright.

He glances around first of course; to make sure he is alone before he breaks down. It would just not do for the king of Albion's court magician to be seen sobbing in the streets of Camelot. It would be seen as a sign of weakness in the very foundation of Camelot, as well as its very core. Merlin represents himself, the king, and the entirety of Albion, and she cannot afford to be seen as weak.

Particularly in a joyous time such as this one, for the king finally has a queen. She is beautiful, just, and kind - everybody loves her. The people celebrate for their beloved king, as his happiness is their own. The land thrives, the ground is fertile; it is the beginning of spring, the flowers are blooming after a long winter, and life is finally beginning to flourish again. Everyone is happy, joyous in fact, to be alive in the midst of what is no doubt the golden age of Albion.

It is only Merlin, it seems, that is still stuck under the ice and frost, slowly withering away.

The rain begins to fall and the king and queen head back inside the palace hand-in-hand. They are followed by a procession of villagers and noblemen alike. The banquet would begin soon and the celebration would go on late into the night. Merlin alone is standing in the rain in his black, official robes. It is fitting that he is dressed for a funeral instead of a wedding.

Merlin feels as if he is dead.

His tears mix in with the raindrops that slide down his cheeks and his world is blurred through wet lashes. He doesn't mind. He's been living life in a blur, a haze, all these years anyway. This is no different. The images flash through his mind and the feelings, those dreadful feelings, scratch and tear their way back to the surface again until Merlin feels them clawing at his throat. He wants to scream, he wants to yell, but he stays silent.

He doesn’t seem to do anything but these days.

Merlin thinks and reminisces of a time when Arthur, merely a prince then, would have walked out into the rain to scold Merlin, calling him an incompetent idiot and telling him that he had better not get Arthur sick when he came to work the next morning. Arthur would have sat next to him, worry coloring the fake annoyance that tinted his voice; he would have asked Merlin what was wrong. Then the prince would have tried to help in that bumbling, unsubtle, completely endearing way of his to find the root of Merlin’s problems and will it away.

No one comes now though; no one ever comes anymore. Merlin has learned how to swallow the bitterness in his throat and the sting behind his eyes but the pain in his chest never goes away. He hears laughter in the air, light and happy; the music is loud and celebratory. Everything is just so goddamn happy. Merlin hears his king’s joyous laughter over and over again and he’s not sure if he can take the pain anymore.
Merlin’s eyes flash gold as he slides easily behind Arthur’s eyes. For a moment, seeing things as they were through his eyes, Merlin feels like nothing has changed. Arthur is friendly with the nobles, he jokes with his people, his friends. But most of all his eyes scan the room, searching for something, someone. Merlin pulls away then, from Arthur and his eyes that see everything. He goes back to his own, blinking and dazed, where the rain falls and stick to his lashes.

The court sorcerer feels something rise in his chest: a light, airy emotion he hasn’t felt in years. Who is Arthur looking for? Merlin stands; a step is taken and another and then another. He is soon at the open castle doors once again; he cannot help but think how much has changed since his first years in Camelot and how nothing has really changed at all. A small, real smile graces Merlin’s face. It is bittersweet, sad and broken from years of endless rain, but one sunray now pierces through the gray. He is dripping water onto the stone floors but he couldn’t care less. Merlin is shivering and his teeth are chattering but all that matters is that little piece of sun that made it through the dark.

Arthur turns towards him and Merlin’s little patch of sunlight grows steadily larger as he sees his king walk towards him with a smile gracing his lips. Merlin can almost feel the warmth of a summer day as he nears, and he lets himself believe that his cluster of light had grown so large that it has engulfed him. Merlin is almost like he used to be by the time Arthur crosses the room to stand by his side. The sorcerer’s dark blue eyes twinkle with the reflection of imaginary sunrays, his cheeks lightly dusted with the pink flush that no one has ever seen on Merlin when Arthur is absent. But most of all is his smile - his pale, pink lips stretched wide across his white teeth, a real smile that reaches his eyes and makes them twinkle.

This smile is different from the ones usually given; those are lies in every form of the word. They are borne of pain and hurt to deceive and allude. This smile brightens up Merlin’s face, it draws the eyes away from the dark circles under his eyes, the sickly pale of his skin, and the flatness of his dark blue eyes; eyes that for a second seem to have regained their old mischievous sparkle. Arthur smiles at Merlin, swinging his arm around his friend as they stand side by side. If either man notices the way Merlin leans into Arthur’s touch, neither of them points it out. “Why are you all wet, Merlin? You’re hurt, for God’s sake! You can’t just stand out in the rain all brooding and pensive. You’re going to get sick.”

Merlin swallows thickly as the nostalgia hits him of a Camelot under the rule of Uther. A rule when magic was banned and sorcerers were persecuted. A rule when Arthur was merely a prince and Merlin simply a servant. They were, funnily enough, the happiest years of his life. “I'm not brooding, Arthur. I’m completely…” Merlin trails off as his king pokes him in the side, trying to get his attention.

His eyes fall closed and he feels the pain stab once more in his heart as he hears Arthur’s gasp. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she Merlin?”

The sorcerer’s eyes open, their blue flat and broken once more. “Yes. Yes she is, sire,” he says as he pulls away from his king. His majesty is confused, his eyes narrowing as though he is trying to see, trying to understand what happened to the Merlin he knew.

Merlin doesn’t know where he went either.

The court sorcerer bows low and deep as his eyes watch a crack in the stone floors intently. Merlin doesn’t trust himself not to cry if his eyes meet the bright blue ones of his king. He feels them watching him intently and can almost hear the wheels turning in Arthur’s head as his majesty struggles to understand. Arthur wraps his fingers around Merlin’s slender wrist and catches him as his sorcerer tries to pull away. To run, far away from his king and his queen - from the pain that threatens to pull him under and make him suffer. To hide from those piercing blue eyes that Merlin has managed to elude and remain beneath the notice of all these years. It seems Merlin’s luck has finally run out.

Arthur’s grip tightens. “Merlin. Look at me. What’s wrong? Are you hurting? Merlin!” The sorcerer pulls futilely against his majesty’s strong, iron-like hold. He wants to scream and whisper all at the same time, to pour out his soul and pain into the one word to answer Arthur’s question. Yes. Merlin wants to say. Yes, I’m hurting. Yes, you make me feel like my soul is breaking. Yes, every time I watch you watch her I feel like I’ve been pushed off the edge and I’m falling into the darkness. I want to scream for help; I want you to rescue me. But you’re too busy watching her and I’m too busy watching you. I’m falling, and I’m scared of what will happen when I hit the ground. Yes, I’m hurting. Yes.

But Merlin remains silent. His eyes stay glued to the crack in the floor. The candlelight dances and flickers gold red light onto the world, leaving a part of the crack shadowed in the darkness. Merlin isn’t sure if he’s the tear, or the shadows that bring death and grey while everything else thrives and dances in the brilliant reds of color. “I need to check on Camelot’s defensive spells, my lord,” Merlin says, his voice as resolute as always. It doesn’t betray him or the rush of emotions that prick at the back of his eyes and burn his throat. He feels the spells that keep Camelot safe from malevolent sorcerers softly humming beneath the surface and he knows that they are indeed still strong. He will do anything, anything to get away from Arthur and those blue eyes that see too much.

“Merlin… we’re friends. You don’t need to call me-” Merlin ducks his head down and pries Arthur’s fingers off his pale wrist.

“You are too kind, my king.”

Merlin turns and walks out of the hall and begins the trek to his quarters. He feels his king’s eyes on his back, watching him, and he is unable to control it any longer. He bolts into a run, feeling the burn of Arthur’s gaze as he flees the scene. The pounding of his heart almost drowns out the desperate pleas that he screams inside his head. He wants someone to hear him; he wants to be able to hear himself. But his heart is beating too hard, his blood thrumming too loud as it rushes around his body, once, twice, three times. The rain is falling too hard, the sound echoing on the cold stonewalls as it trickles down from the roof. It is too much to handle. He hears voices in the wind as it howls against the castle, he hears the promises made to lovers that would never be kept. He hears the pacts made by friends that will never be honored. He hears hearts breaking and souls tearing, the silent screams of scorned lovers deafening him as he slams the door to his quarters behind him.

Merlin pants as he leans against the door, his lungs burn and his throat is tight when he swallows, tears stinging his eyes. The sorcerer still sees those bright blue eyes watching him when he closes his; Merlin sees those slender fingers wrapped around his wrist and those lips parted in a smile as Arthur whispers someone else’s name. Not Merlin’s name; never Merlin’s. He opens his eyes slowly, trying to find comfort in the familiarity of the room. The warlock runs his hands over the huge leather texts that litter the room in a disorganized mess. Papers lay everywhere, some written on and others torn, but still kept. Nothing here is ever thrown away.

Merlin walks up to the glass beakers that Gaius loved so much and he gently picks one up. There’s a ring of dust on the shelf and Merlin wipes it off with his sleeve, glancing around wearily as he does so. He almost believes that any second now, Gaius would reemerge from wherever he’s hiding and scold him for letting things fall into this state. He would roll his eyes and raise his eyebrows at Merlin and call him an idiot. Then they would laugh, and everything would be all right because Gaius said it would be. It would be any second now.

Any second.

Merlin feels his magic shooting through his blood as his eyes fall closed and he succumbs to memory. A tear slides down his cheek as the candles blow out of their own accord and the room falls into shadow. One would swear that Emrys’ silent tears glint gold as he falls asleep in the same bed he has slept in since his first night in Camelot.

Merlin can’t sleep naturally anymore, can’t fall into the soft numbness of a world made completely in his mind. Something happened, something went so wrong somewhere and one day he just can’t fall asleep without using magic anymore. The last thing Merlin feels every night before he fell into his memories is the burn of magic in his veins, a familiar friend, his only friend. Merlin wants to fall asleep to a lover’s soft caress, a loving whisper, or the ghost of a kiss. To close his eyes knowing his friend and lover lay by him, knowing that he isn’t alone in the world. There Merlin lies, his arms wrapped tightly around his own fragile build; he wonders if maybe everyone was right, it seems Merlin is a scrawny thing. On the verge of sleep Merlin makes a note to himself to ask for bigger helpings of food from the cooks. Merlin fingers fist in his dark robes, and he braces himself for the memories.

They come every night, silent and slow, as he falls deeper into unconsciousness. Magic comes at a price. To save a life one must be sacrificed, to heal one’s body blood must be shed and given, to wish for sleep one must sacrifice one’s dreams and the musings and worlds that a sleeping mind discovers. Merlin hadn't known what to expect the first time he used his magic in such a way. He guesses he really should have expected it. His mind didn’t know what to do as he fell into his first golden slumber and it scrambled for something - anything - to fill his head as he slept. It latches on to the only thing he has left: his memories.

Some are a blur, hazy and unclear; others burn slowly, trickling pain into his heart. He feels soft caresses under his clothes and the sear of the chill when it is taken away. He relives everything, including the moments that stand out sharply in his mind and send a paralyzing pain through his heart. He sees flashes of red and gold with snatches of beautiful blue, and Merlin knows what’s coming next.



“Merlin.” His king’s voice rings loud and true in his ear almost as if he has truly been able to turn back time and step once again into its smooth flow. The sorcerer’s heart seizes as he watches Arthur cradle his head in his hands, his Arthur, who asked Merlin to stay with him when Morgana betrayed them. His Arthur, still trying to find himself and the type of king he wanted to be when Uther fell and left the young prince the throne to Camelot.

It is ironic that Uther, who spent his whole life fighting, bleeding, and causing bloodshed alike, he passed silently and unnoticed in the night when he died. The people of Camelot gathered quietly in the courtyard when the whispers finally made their rounds that the reign of King Arthur had finally come. No one whispered of the death of the old king for he was already forgotten.

In the years to come grandmothers will pull their grandchildren close and whisper of the great deeds that their king has performed, of the bravery and loyalty that Arthur shows his people. Maybe, maybe on a particularly stormy night when the rain falls hard on the roof and the fire flickers wildly will she tell them of Uther Pendragon, father of King Arthur. But soon those stories will die too, washed away by the purity that came with Arthur’s reign. The stories of the lady Morgana and her days as a ward of Camelot, those of Guinevere and Arthur’s love that seemed to have been impossible when she was merely a servant girl, and tales of Arthur’s brave and loyal knights who would lay their life down for him in a heartbeat replace the stories of Uther and fill the silence. The stories of Merlin, the court sorcerer, are always favorites among the children. They giggle and hush each other as they imagine the all-powerful warlock getting pelted by rotten fruit and vegetables in the stocks. Their eyes turn wide in awe when their older siblings tell them they had personally thrown tomatoes at the most powerful sorcerer Albion would ever know.

These legends replace those of wars and famine. Laughter fills the streets of Camelot with the sound of children playing until no one remembers the screaming in the night as knights dragged away their neighbors to be executed. Uther, who tried so hard to be remembered, would be overlooked by legend. He would forever remain the tyrant and predecessor to King Arthur, the greatest king the world would ever know.

The people held candles in their hands - not for the past, but for the present. The soft glow of candlelight was for the hope of a better future, a happier future, and a better son than a father.

Merlin can almost smell the wine that pooled on the floor when Arthur raged and cried. He can still feel the soft skin of Arthur’s wet cheeks under his fingertips as he soothed his king. He whispered into his soft hair, fingers gentle and insistent as Arthur pulled him closer, sobbing into his chest. Merlin ghosted a kiss on the crown of Arthur’s head, not daring to go any further while his king was already so broken, shattered, and confused. Merlin refused to hurt Arthur. He refused to make it any worse or harder for him. He cannot help but wonder if things would be any different now if he had. 
The king of Camelot didn’t say much when his tears finally subsided, and with a breaking heart, his friend rose to leave. Rough fingers, calloused with years of being wrapped around the hilt of a sword, gently encircled a slender wrist to hold Merlin back.

“Stay.”

Merlin obeyed.

The memory changes and turns a deep blue, swirls of sapphire and aquamarine join it. Each color dredges up a memory more painful than the one before it; worse still are the ones that were happy. When Merlin leaves those happy memories to join ones of pain and hurt, to life as he knows it in the present, he feels the sting of bitterness sharper still. The aquamarine engulfs his mind and before he knows it he’s drowning in it.

He was burning; his throat tightened as he tried to swim upwards, towards the light, towards life, towards Arthur. He saw his king reaching for him, eyes wide in panic and worry as he felt fingers encircle his wrist and tug him upwards.

They broke the surface, the cool air forced its way down his throat and he choked, heaving against the bank, his friend’s palm rubbed circles on his back. As he got his breath back, he heard Arthur remark, “You idiot. What were you thinking, jumping in like that?” His voice was colored with worry and relief. He tried to scowl at Merlin but his lips twitched upward, giving him away.

The worst part of the night was his inability to change anything - he could only watch and hope that when he wakes up, the world won’t be too hard to face.

“Sorry,” the younger, happier Merlin said, shooting the prince a sheepish smile. Arthur rolled his eyes, ruffling Merlin’s hair before pulling his manservant into his arms. He froze; his breathing became shallow and his heart beat quickly in his chest as he tentatively wrapped his arms around his Prince.

Arthur held him tightly as he whispered in his ear, “I thought I lost you. Never… never do that to me again.”

Merlin’s lips split in a wide smile as he pressed his face to Arthur’s shoulder, the damp cloth cool against his cheek. “Yes, sire.”

Arthur pushed his friend away by the shoulders firmly so as to look him in the eyes. “Promise me, Merlin. Promise me as your friend, not your prince.” Arthur had never looked more beautiful, his blond hair was damp and curled at the nape of his neck, his eyes were so blue they rivaled the water, his long lashes sparkled as he blinked water out of his eyes. Merlin couldn’t help the sudden intake of breath as he stared at Arthur, and if either of them noticed, they chose to ignore it. His palm found Arthur’s cheek where he cradled it softly, wiping away a smudge of mud as he nodded.

“You’re not my prince, Arthur. You are my king. Remember that.” His friend’s lips parted in surprise, but Merlin continued on, his breathlessness fueled his sudden bravado as he gently swiped a finger across Arthur’s lower lip. “But yes, I promise. I serve only you.” His king smiled at him, shy and small, but he covered it up by pulling him into a one armed hug. Merlin reveled in the warmth and sheer mass of Arthur as he felt his heart ignite under his skin.

He felt cold when the prince pulled away, his eyes lowered as he pulled himself up onto the bank. Merlin felt the chill settle in his bones and he shivered, though the sun shone brightly. The court sorcerer shivered as he clutched tighter still to his pillows and blankets. Merlin struggled to pull himself onto the bank, his arms unable to handle the weight of himself and his wet clothes. He heard an exasperated sigh before Arthur walked over, a determined expression on his face. He wanted to caress and kiss away the frown and worry lines on Arthur’s face but he worried that would only add to them. The prince pulled him up, their hands warm against each other as their fingers instantly intertwined.

Merlin felt his cheeks color but he didn’t dare say a word, worried that his voice would crack and all would be lost. Arthur cleared his throat, but neither of them let go even as the prince snapped at his servant to hurry up because he absolutely did not have all day to go saving around damsels in distress, specifically Merlin.

He just rolled his eyes affectionately at the prince and called him a prat. Merlin felt empty when Arthur had no choice but to untangle their hands as he mounted his horse, his manservant following him by foot as they headed back to Camelot. But he felt his heart warm and his cheeks flush when Arthur offered him a hand once again, this time to ride with him on Hengroen. His eyes were soft and cautious, his face hopeful but guarded. He was worried that his friend would decline and reject his offer, deny him, and shatter the world they had so carefully carved; a world devoid of rank and position. It was where it all began, the place where Prince Arthur would continue to escape to when the pressure of noble blood became too much to bear. It was the very world that he wanted to share with his people.

Arthur’s teeth pulled gently on his lower lip nervously, eyes watching Merlin’s face as his friend slipped his hand into his own calloused one. When Arthur smiled it caught him off guard. It was bright, blinding, a smile so raw and real and true. His heart fluttered in his chest as he was yanked upward, Arthur’s other hand supporting him as he mounted Hengroen. Arthur’s chest was warm against Merlin’s back, the arms around him felt so right. It felt like... home. He wondered if maybe he’s finally found it: the place he’d been constantly searching for, the place he belonged. Merlin felt something click into place inside him as he heard Arthur whisper in his ear. “My friends ride with me and…you are my truest friend, Merlin. Even though you’re an idiot.”

Merlin smiled softly and he wondered if maybe that crazy dragon was right. It was moments like these that Merlin could see the brilliant king Arthur would become. He felt his chest warm and his smile widen as he felt Arthur’s chin rest on the top of his head. He would help the prat grow into the greatest king Albion - no, the world - would ever know; he could feel it in his soul, his heart. His entire being screamed it.

The blues darken again, the tidal pool of darkness swallowing the sleeping Merlin once again. He knows better.

He feels the dread settle, the fatigue and exhaustion sinking deep into his bones and into his mind. He knows what’s coming next. He always knows.

He didn’t notice anything at all. The young sorcerer fixed his bright blue and black robes as he entered the chambers he shared with Gaius, the disorganized home that brought comfort and warmth. Merlin wouldn’t want to be anywhere else on earth. “He’s an absolute prat! I don’t see how that bloody dragon thought he would be the greatest king to have ever lived! I mean he is a good king, but-” Merlin stilled and the rooms were filled with silence compared to what they were seconds ago when he burst in, door banging and robes flying as he threw the scratchy material onto the floor.

“Gaius?” He called, his footsteps echoed in the rooms that suddenly felt emptier and larger. There was no Gaius around mixing remedies for the ill and making ointments for bruised and sore knights. He paused in front of the door to his room and listened, but beyond his own breathing all he could hear were the distant sounds of horses’ hooves on cobblestones and the clanging of the blacksmith’s hammer against hot metal floating in through the open window. Missing were the sounds of the friendly and affectionate banter between him and Gaius as they spoke of the day’s happenings, the sound of boiling water as dinner cooked and potions brewed. None of it felt right.

Merlin pushed his door open gently, “Gaius?” he called again. He paused, seeing his friend, mentor, confidante and father bent over his magic book, shaking fingers flipping the pages. Merlin called again, softer this time as he watched Gaius look up. Gaius’ face was pale and his white hair stuck to his forehead and curled at the nape of his neck from sweat.

“Merlin! My boy!” His friend called, his weary and wrinkled face smoothing the way for his cracked lips to split in a smile. Merlin felt his relief grow in his chest and the worry disappear as Gaius fussed over him. “You’re too skinny, Merlin. People are beginning to think I don’t feed you!” Camelot’s all-powerful warlock ducked his head sheepishly and scratched at the back of his neck as Gaius continued to complain about the state of his room. Merlin just hadn’t had time to clean it lately. It hit the young sorcerer then that he hadn’t seen Gaius in three days. He’d just been so busy. Merlin felt the shame and guilt settle in the pit of his stomach as he watched Gaius fuss about, preparing their dinner of roasted chicken and fruit.

Merlin leaned against his bedroom doorway, the soft wood against his cheek as he breathed in deeply, the smell of it mixed with the cooking food and dampness from the rain gave him a dizzy rush of belonging. His lips tweaked upwards in a smile as Gaius turned to him with his infamous eyebrow raised. “Well? Aren’t you going to help an old man?” Merlin had laughed before hugging Gaius and beginning to assist him in readying their messy table for dinner. Gaius had stilled in his arms, his palms tentatively patting the sorcerer on the back awkwardly. Merlin could have sworn that when he pulled away Gaius’ eyes were shining with unshed tears, but he just smiled, for they no doubt reflected his own.

How Merlin wishes he had asked his mentor, companion, confidante, friend, father, what the matter was. Maybe if he had things would be different now.

They had dinner together; Gaius sat across from him as they tore into their food. Gaius frequently commenting on Merlin’s eating habits. But his tone was teasing and light, his smile affectionate. “Merlin…” The sorcerer stilled, his mouth open for a bite of chicken. Gaius’ face was serious, his mouth set in a grim line. “I know I could never replace your father, but I hope I have been… adequate.” Merlin’s eyes widened, his lips tweaked upward in an affectionate smile, and when he answered his voice was teasing and light.

“Well, I’ve managed to make do. I didn’t turn out so bad, did I?”

Both men’s eyes shone with tears but if either of them noticed, neither commented on it as Gaius patted Merlin’s hand. “Not bad at all, Merlin. Not bad at all.”

Then, in a rush of sound, the doors burst open. A guard dressed in the beautiful reds and golds of Camelot’s colours entered, his face frantic and flushed from running in armor. “The king requires your presence, my lord.”

Merlin rose, nodding at the guard as he blinked away his tears. He smiled down at Gaius as the old physician flashed him a proud grin. “I remember the boggling idiot who came charging into my chambers all those years ago. Who would believe it? Court sorcerer.” Merlin smiled, wide and toothy as Gaius waved him away, “Go on. Go save all of Albion, oh powerful and wise Merlin.”

The warlock walked to the door, slipping his robes back on. But before he left the bubble of comfort and warmth to the cold and dangers of the world, he flashed a warm smile at Gaius once more. “I couldn’t have done it without you, Gaius,” he said.

Gaius nodded slowly. “Of course you couldn’t! Who would have saved you when you got yourself into trouble? You can’t even brew a proper burn ointment! Which is really important to learn, you know. See, the skin is very tender while…”

Merlin made a run for it, grabbing the ridiculous hat when he exited the room, laughing. “Goodnight, Gaius! I’ll see you in the morning!”

He didn’t.

Merlin’s lashes flutter against his pale cheeks, flush from the heat of the thin blankets wrapped around his scrawny body and his growing panic twisting in his gut. His dark hair curls at the nape of his neck, damp with sweat, as he turns restlessly in his sleep. He sees the swirl of blues darken into black, the vortex of darkness pulling him deeper inside himself and drowning him in his memories. He hears snatches of conversations in his head, some new and some old, others he’s never remembered having at all.

“You don’t know why I’m born like this, do you?”

“No.”

“I’m not a monster, am I?”

“Don’t ever think that.”

“Everything I do is for him, and he just thinks I’m an idiot.”

He feels the darkness completely engulf him, eating his coherency and composure the longer he stayed submerged in the shade. Full conversations pale into sentences that eventually fade into mere snippets. They are simple paintbrush strokes amongst an entire painting.

“… Son to me.”

“… Sacrifice...”

“… Leech tank…”

“…Sorcery…”

“…Danger.”

“Fool…”

“…Stocks.”

“…Grave mental affliction.”

But most of all-

“Destiny.”

The colours swirl and the voices get louder and higher. The memories change, distorting and tearing at the edges. The voices melt into a single voice that screams his name; it accuses Merlin of atrocities and it is clear whom it holds responsible. “You tried to kill me!” It’s high-pitched and he can practically feel the bloody scratches of nails raking down his ears. He feels the thrum of blood and the hum of pain singing in his ears, adding to screech of the siren. Merlin wants to scream, enough! Enough. Worse still is the pain in his heart, the paralyzing guilt that tightens his throat and he slowly begins to choke. The air scratches down Merlin’s raw throat and the sorcerer can taste the metallic tang of his own blood. Nevertheless the pain inflicted by his guilt cuts right through Merlin and all his brain can comprehend besides the blinding pain is the pang of regret that sears through him. He could have saved her. I could have saved you, Merlin cries and he knows what’s coming next; still he flinches and fights the urge to bury himself deeper into the dark depths inside his soul to hide away.

“Merli-” The voice chokes off and his mind is silent with the exception of the soft strangled gasps coming from deep inside the darkness. The dark depths inside himself, Merlin realizes. Just like that Merlin wakes in his bed, damp from sweat where he lay. The warlock pants, his hands immediately reaching up to swipe at his ears. He fears he will find the sticky red of blood left on his fingers as he pulls them away. The sorcerer finds nothing, but his heart is still beating fast. His blood burns with magic inside him, ready to attack and kill anything that would be an immediate threat to its host. Merlin’s breath is shallow and his heart beats fast in his chest. He settles down again, running his slender fingers across his flushed face as he kicks the threadbare blankets off, only to shiver again once the cool night air blows across clammy skin. The sorcerer stares up at his ceiling, the cracks both old and new offering him comfort as the sounds of choking still ring in his mind.

Merlin forces his mind away, squeezing his eyes shut as he tears away from the pain and wishes for sleep and sanctuary; though he knows it will never come. He still tries to sleep sometimes in the dead of night when there is nothing left to do and his memories have awoken him. The sorcerer tries when Camelot is in a deep silent slumber and the only living beings stirring are Merlin and the mouse that lives in the hat next to his bed. Even the furry white mouse - Sebille, he had named her - sometimes lay sleeping in the nest of gold and red cloth of his hat with the ridiculous green feathers and tussles. Merlin finds comfort in the sound of quiet scratching as Sebille scurries about, no doubt collecting scraps of materials in his room for her nest.

However tonight Sebille is silent and Merlin tries to force his mind to fall asleep - natural sleep. Beautiful silence. His muscles clench with his effort to keep still, the hot mattress beneath Merlin’s body causing him to shift and groan before the heat becomes unbearable and the arm he injured begins to hurt again. The sorcerer wanders over to the slightly open window and pushes it out all the way, the cool wind feeling absolutely delicious on his heated skin. Merlin stares out onto his city, onto a miniscule part of Arthur’s kingdom that was nevertheless big enough to fill his heart. As far as Merlin was concerned, Camelot is home even if he has no one to come back home to.

Merlin remembers doing the very same thing years ago and every night since then, his elbows resting on the smooth wood that was worn down from age and use. The sorcerer wonders what changed more: the city around him, silent in the dark night; or himself. What happened to the bustling idiot that managed to save Gaius that very first day? Merlin’s throat tightened. Gaius. The guilt rushes back from where it had simply been waiting under the surface, for the moments where his heart was vulnerable and his mind idle - then it would rise and brand pain and regret into every essence of his being. The warlock’s fingers clench tightly, the slivers of crescent moons white on his palms as he rubs his eyes. Dark shapes dance across his vision as he blinks to regain his sight. Is this what Gaius saw? The shadows lurking so close, ready to steal his last ragged breath from between his lips and to rip his soul from his body.

Gaius died alone. When Merlin returned from fixing whatever crisis Albion was in then, or after completing the ridiculous reports Arthur forced him to do, he walked into their chambers and was greeted by the sight of his sleeping mentor. The sorcerer crept silently up to him, a small affectionate smile gracing his face as he covered the elderly man with a blanket. Merlin doesn’t know what alerted him that things were amiss first - was it the feel of Gaius’ ice-cold skin or his magic book laying open on the ground beside the cot? Either way, Merlin leaned down, his eyebrows furrowed and confused, as he read the spell on the page. Eac gefrýnd cumaþ hámfæreld. Merlin did not dare to read it aloud, his teeth gently biting his lower lip as he struggled to understand. What could Gaius have possibly wanted with a spell like this? Things slowly began to click together in Merlin’s mind.

The small smile spread across Gaius’ face, the spell, the messy table covered in books and papers that looked like someone had attempted to organize before just giving up. Strangely, they all fit together. Merlin swallowed, the tightness in his throat rising as he leaned down to press his ear to Gaius’ chest. He was vaguely aware of the thud of the book falling from his loose grasp onto the floor from beneath the silence; Merlin could hear nothing. The sorcerer gripped his mentor’s shoulders, getting ready to shake him and to try to rouse him once more into the light. Merlin could feel his magic coiling in the pit of his stomach, ready and excited for this new challenge.

“Don’t worry, Gaius. I’ll save-” The warlock stilled, his hands loosening their hold on the older man’s robes as Merlin finally saw. Gaius’ relaxed smile and his brow smoothed without worry; it was the look of complete and utter peace. Merlin swallowed thickly and pulled his hands away to gently wipe at Gaius’ brow. He had to be the strong one that time; he could not be selfish after Gaius had already given so much for him. Merlin had to allow him that. Merlin owed Gaius that; he would not bring him back for his own selfish needs. Gaius had known this was coming, it explained everything. The silent goodbye hidden in everything the old man had done; from the way Gaius had looked as he leafed through Merlin’s book, words exchanged before he had left. The sorcerer stood in a dazed flurry as he searched the room, his hands numb and useless as he knocked books off the tables in his hurry. It had to be there somewhere, Merlin thought as he saw drops of wet land on the parchment beneath him.

He unthinkingly swiped at his cheeks, his palms came away wet with salty tears. Merlin’s blue eyes blinked slowly, his dark lashes fluttered as he watched his tears fall slowly onto the pages. There was nothing. Gaius left no letter, no note, and no bloody explanation for all of it. Merlin fell to the floor, his knees buckling as he gripped onto the edge of the cot. It dawned on him, the reason why nothing was left, why nothing was even whispered; everything was already known. There was naught more to be said. Merlin sobbed into Gaius’ side, the cold merely burned into him the painful reality. But Merlin didn’t understand, he never would - not really - why Gaius hadn’t just asked to be healed after he had fallen off the balcony. His mentor’s head had been wrapped for a day or two from where he had hit his head on the blunt, worn-down edge of a table. When Merlin had seen him that night, the elder man had simply waved him off and slapped his useless hands away. Gaius had claimed he was alright, had even told Merlin that he was to save his strength and magic for something else; for someone else of more importance and greater need.

If only Merlin had been there as he had once been to catch Gaius as he fell. If he had gotten there sooner, or had left later, Gaius might still be alive now and he would be cooking their dinner as Merlin waited at the table, chattering away about the day’s happenings. Gaius would nod and smile as well as interrupt from time to time about how he’s never met a stupider smart person. Merlin would just laugh and take it as the compliment it was semi-meant to be. (Though one could also call it an affectionate insult, Merlin truly didn’t mind either). But there they laid, Merlin’s breath heavy with sobs and Gaius lacking of them altogether. Merlin’s eyes landed on the book, hidden halfway beneath the cot as if unwilling to be seen and found. Eac gefrýnd cumaþ hámfæreld.

Old friends return home.

Merlin read the curling spidery script and held his breath. Had Gaius been that lonely? Had he felt unable to talk to Merlin, worried that he might be in the way, or even worse, a nuisance? The sorcerer squeezed his eyes closed at the thought, unable to bear it. If Gaius had at least told him Merlin could have been there while he passed instead of those ghosts, those shades of dead friends and fleeting acquaintances. He felt the burn of jealousy sear through him at the thought. They would have him all to themselves when he passed anyway, couldn’t they have given him one moment for a simple farewell? What right did they hold over him to be the ones by Gaius’ side as he drew his last shaky breath?

Merlin knew he was being irrational, stupid and selfish, much like the blustering idiot who first entered the chambers many years ago. The sorcerer raised his eyes to Gaius’ face slowly and felt the anger and resentment slowly dissipate. Merlin was soon left with only sadness, overwhelming sadness at the thought that Gaius had only a spell for company when he passed into shadow. He had hoped Gaius would die in a roomful of friends and people who loved him. Merlin blinked the tears away from his eyes as he rested a palm on Gaius’ cheek. “Sleep well… father.” He could almost hear Gaius’ reply and see his small smile. Goodnight, son.

But Merlin knows now that Gaius hadn’t died alone. His mentor, friend, and father had died in a roomful of smiling friends that only he could see. Gaius had passed from this world into the arms of all his friends who waited on the other side who had been able to, with the spell, cross over and smile down at him as he heaved his last breath. Merlin feels grateful as he turns away from the window and lays back down on his bed, careful not to bend his sore arm; they had been there for Gaius when he hadn’t been. He sighs, swiping a hand over tired eyes. He is happy Gaius died among friends, especially ones he had not seen in awhile. Gaius deserved it after all he’d done. Gaius deserved the best the world had to offer; he’d saved people and risked his life for the sake of others. The sorcerer snuggles down into the bed, his blue eyes watching the shadows play on the wall; secret stories that only Merlin could hear and see. He reminisces of the adventures that they had, the laughs and tears they shared. A small smile ghosts the sorcerer’s face as the sun rises over the horizon and chases the shadows away, the stories left untold and unfinished - Merlin would have to wait for another night to continue the never ending story.



(Part 2)