Polarity: Part 1
Title: Polarity
Author: castmeaway
Artist: reni_m
Beta: piscaria
Pairing: A/M
Rating: nc-17
Warnings: dub-con and [character death]Uther and Morgause
Word Count: ~33,00
Summary: A Camelot still reeling from Morgana’s betrayal plays host to the visiting king of the only nation militant enough to pose a viable threat. Only, a surprising twist is revealed when the heirless king of that nation announces that the dragon lord Balinor was actually his formerly lost and disinherited brother, therefore making Balinor’s son, Merlin, the sole blood heir to his throne.
Polarity
Nay, why reproach each other, be unkind,
For there's no plane on which we two may meet?
Let's both forgive, forget, for both were blind,
And life is of a day, and time is fleet.
And I am fire, swift to flame and burn,
Melting with elements high overhead,
While you are water in an earthly urn,
All pure, but heavy, and of hue like lead. -Claude Mckay
Morgana swirls her hands through the dark cloud of liquid, her nails leaving small furrows for the breadth of a heartbeat, before they fill in with gentle trailing ripples.
“Show me,” she breathes, focusing her intent, opening her heart and her magic. She is searching. Searching… reaching out with everything that she is and willing the dark waters to show her what she needs. A source of magic powerful enough to do what she cannot on her own.
She feels her eyes flash and her fingers tingle as an image blurs on the waving surface. She squints, focuses on the thread of her magic fueling, enhancing, the thing growing in her mind.
She gasps suddenly and stumbles back at what she sees. Her heart hardens. Her veins run icy in a sharp hatred, then soothe when she remembers her plans. Plans that suddenly become all the sweeter for the revenge that she shall reap in the process.
She needs power, needs a source for her aim, and in the slim body of a once-friend she will get it, and so much more. The irony pleases her, the beautiful balance of it.
Revenge, she thinks, will be sweet in the taking, and magnificent in its reward.
~~~
Part 1:
“Merlin” Arthur says, “Where the hell have you been? The feast starts soon and if you don’t hurry up I’ll be late. Tell me you have my…”
Merlin hurries to his side, sheepishly holding out the jacket Arthur is waiting for. “Here, sire.”
Arthur snatches the garment away with a put-upon grump of exasperation and slides it round his shoulders. The high collar and the shock of red lights up his features, makes his eyes more strikingly blue and his hair more brilliantly golden, and Merlin can’t help but admire the look for the easy grace that it adds to a man who is already achingly comfortable in his own skin.
“Besides,” Merlin continues undeterred by Arthur's long suffering and familiar huff of annoyance, “It’s alright. You won’t be late. Gwen told me that the lady Ellyna is having a bit of a fit because her favorite dress has a tear. She can’t decide what to wear now, and has half the serving staff in an uproar. Morgana was never…” he trails off as he realizes what he was about to say so thoughtlessly, and he forcibly ignores the pained, pinched look that flitters across Arthur’s face, sliding from behind his eyes as if it had merely been waiting for the chance to do so. “Everything’ll be at least half an hour late,” Merlin finishes quietly.
Not that his reply excuses him, exactly. He can feel it in the way Arthur’s shoulders stay tensed beneath the fussing of Merlin's long fingers, nimble from exhaustive practice.
He is ready, then, when Arthur finally swats his hands away. Merlin's muted laugh in return, meant to ease the tension that has slid between them like a wall, earns him a baleful glare that doesn’t quite hide the slow emergence of humor in the prince's eyes. Merlin steps back quickly, grinning in the face of Arthur's determined irritation. This is an old game. Comforting for its familiarity and its ability to leave things understood but unsaid between them. Neither of them has ever been very good at the whole business of talking, which, Merlin often muses, is just as well. He’s willing to take any justification he can find for the secrets that lie like a gulf between them.
“Will I be serving the high table tonight?” he finally asks when Arthur relaxes a bit, daring to dart in and brush an invisible speck of dust from soft red suede, linger over a button that is only a little more shiny at the passing of his long fingers.
Arthur nods and visibly deflates. It will be a long night and they both know it. It is also to be the first real banquet since, well, since the events that nobody talks about. The betrayal no one will openly acknowledge.
Everything has only just settled itself back into a state not so far off from what once passed for normalcy here in Camelot, though the emotional wounds are still deep and the castle itself still shows remnants of the rubbled memorial of Morgana’s betrayal. The wounds in Uther, however, run deeper than most, and Arthur is obviously worried about him, though Uther has been more his old self lately, if prone to sharp melancholies and increasingly scathing criticism of just about everyone, especially Arthur.
Not that Uther, therefore Arthur’s, improved humors mean anything in the face of the diplomatic party of King Dalined and his consort, lady Ellyna. Symria’s tolerance toward magic is a strain on relations with Camelot at even the best of times, which is most certainly not the current case.
“You, ah, you haven’t heard anything have you?” Arthur ventures after a few minutes of silence. “From Dalined’s servants about why they’re here? Things have always been tense between our kingdoms but they’ve never shown any serious intentions toward us one way or another before. It’s strange that they would come to Camelot now.”
Merlin shrugs and shakes his head. He has heard as much over the last couple of days. More, in the way that gossip travels rampant amongst the servants of both nations. The two kingdoms have always had a sort of tense understanding, equal as they have long been in armed strength. The thing is, say the whispers floating around the castle, now that Cenred is gone, only Dalined is powerful enough to successfully mount an attack against Camelot, should he wish it. With everything that has happened, no one is entirely certain Camelot could withstand that attack. The fact that Dalined is far advanced in his own age, and with no named heir, is further cause for concern. Should one of their enemies take advantage of the situation and conquer Symria with even a hint of conquest running through their veins, Camelot could be in serious trouble.
“They’ve all kept to themselves. I haven’t noticed anything out of place, except . . . ” Merlin imagines the shadowed glances that prickle against his skin, and leave him with that awful ‘what am I forgetting?’ feeling. He pauses, shakes his head. “It’s probably nothing.”
“What’s probably nothing?” Arthur says with such obviously forced nonchalance that Merlin can’t help but wonder why he puts any effort to it at all.
Merlin shifts briefly in hesitation before saying, “It’s just, well, sometimes I catch them looking at me. King Dalined, as well.”
“Looking at you?” Arthur crows incredulous. “You’re worried because they look at you?”
“Well…I mean, yes? It’s strange. They don’t treat me like another servant is all” he finally mutters. He shrugs helplessly at Arthur and offers one of his trademark grins. “Like I said, probably nothing. Gaius seems to agree, although he’s been acting kind of…strange as well, since the king arrived.”
“Gaius is probably right. Don’t be such a girl. Only you would be worried about someone looking at you. Although.” Arthur stops and studies him critically for a moment. “No one’s approached you about anything untoward have they? You may be an incompetent servant, but if you’re worried about anything…”
Merlin’s swallows back a small smile at Arthur, then, so willing to protect him, even as he offers an affectionate insult in the very same moment. Which doesn’t make it all any less insultingly irritating. But then, that’s sort of the story of their relationship.
Merlin snorts at this. “I can take care of myself, you know”. He adds an impertinent “Sire” just to be on the safe side, and then glares at Arthur’s skeptical countenance. “They’re just looks, and I’m probably being paranoid anyway.” He hopes.
And the thing is, it really is silly, although not so terribly outlandish that Arthur doesn’t seem to consider the matter, if only briefly, before waving it all away with a flutter of his hand. Clearly dismissive. Only Merlin knows that looks really can kill. Not that he is about to tell Arthur this. As often as he saves the prince’s life, protecting Arthur frequently if equally means protecting him from discovering that there are things he can’t defend himself against. ‘No need to have a paranoid prince’, Merlin thinks only half-laughingly. What Arthur doesn’t know might still kill him, but it has to get through Merlin first.
Merlin rolls his eyes, a gesture no less mockingly grandiose than the sweep of his arm meant to usher Arthur forward and out the door. “Shall we, my lord?”
Arthur brushes past him and into the hallway, pulling Merlin forward as inexorably as if they were joined by ties more physical than mere loyalty.
~~~
King Dalined sits back languorously in his chair, blatantly ignoring the simpering lady Ellyna as she slides closer to him, threads her arm through his and tugs restlessly at his body. Dalined’s gaze is fixed solidly upon Uther and his barely-constrained, if visibly curious, impatience. The focused intensity in Dalined’s strikingly blue eyes leaves him quite clearly and willfully unaware of the breathless expectation circulating through the room, so that Arthur can’t help but feel uncomfortable and frustrated with his own expectation.
As it is, the night has been remarkably uneventful, for which everyone is happy. Uther looks more relaxed than he’s been in a long time, his face flushed with wine and the surprisingly interesting company that the visiting king is proving to be. Arthur is just relieved. He is pleased and surprised with Uther's strange, if slightly manic good cheer, though he can’t help but feel a wary expectation that something is yet to come. He has unfortunately good instincts. The night has been going too well, and he is irritated with the way that his body stays sharply on edge.
“Your story then, Dalined,” Uther says as he waves Merlin impatiently forward with his decanter of wine. They have long progressed into the night, and despite the lazy stupor that has taken hold of most of the room, no one seems quite willing to leave, for the expectation that sizzles hotly around them.
Arthur narrows his eyes as he notes Dalined breaking his concentration then, to follow Merlin’s movement with unnatural attentiveness in a shockingly visible display of proof to Merlin’s earlier concerns. “Boy,” Dalined voice is slow and calculating, “my cup runs low as well.” Even in the face of such tension, Merlin only hesitates a moment, his wide eyes flickering briefly to Arthurs, before he slides quickly forward and completes his duty. If he hastens away far more quickly than is necessarily proper before the overbearing heat of such a blatantly considering look, and from a king no less, no one bothers to say anything. Nor is there comment at the itching of Arthur’s finger’s where they have come to rest on the ceremonial dagger strapped to his side. Surely this is no less an improper gesture, though Merlin clearly notices, and flashes him a small inscrutable look.
“Your story, my lord?” This time, Arthur lets the prompt slide from his own lips, though his eyes track Dalined warily. He lets the smooth lines of his shoulders ease, perhaps forcibly, though his gloved fingers continue to rest ready at the hilt of his dagger, still deadly for all of its frillery.
“Ah yes, my story. Indeed, the very reason I am here in Camelot. But I shall get to that in a moment.” And Dalined, who until that moment has ignored the lady Ellyna’s gentle tugging, pushes her firmly away to her shocked protests and straightens his back. He puffs his chest in readiness and takes a second to wet his lips with a sip of wine, though his gaze remains cast to the side, following the subtle fidgeting of Merlin’s fingers.
“Never have we been friends,” he begins, and Arthur watches in curiosity as the man shifts his attention to Uther with heretofore-concealed animosity, “But perhaps you know that I once had a younger brother?” He doesn’t pause for an answer. “Surely the phrase ‘an heir and a spare’ made its rounds, even within my hearing, and I was still a young child at his birth. Still, I loved him, though it became clear very quickly that this was not so for my father. I have my suspicions, of course, as to why. No one ever spoke the words “bastard” within my hearing, though it was widely suspected, if never quite proved. For this reason and others, my father despised the boy with a hatred, or perhaps resentment is a more accurate word, that once belonged solely to our mother.”
"Though magic is now banned here in Camelot, and much of Albion besides, this was not so at that time, and what you must understand is that my mother . . . ” he trails off for a moment, eyes soft at some memory. He blatantly ignores Uther’s hard look at the mention of magic. “My mother was a very powerful woman. Her family could trace its heritage to some of the most powerful priestesses of the land, and my father…he was jealous of that power. He had married her with the hope of controlling her, controlling her power to his whims, and when he found himself unable to harness her will to his…It made him hard and angry. When my brother, at such a young age began to show signs of that which he resented and craved in equal measure, such easy power, and practically unheard of for a High Priestesses’ abilities to pass to a boy child, my father grew cold to him as well. Even as his hate began to grow towards my mother and brother, so did his estimation of me begin to rise in equal measure. It was… not an easy life, though that is neither here nor there.”
The court has grown gravely silent and even his father, despite the suspicion and impatience that lingers in the corner of his eyes, looks mildly interested in the story. Dalined is no great storyteller, but near-tangible emotions flirt around the words.
“As time went on,” Dalined continues softly, “things only became more difficult. Our mother died when I was barely of majority, and with her passing, my brother became morose and spiteful. Any love and protection he could claim died with her. It was for this reason that he often disappeared for long stretches of time into the woods to hunt, even at such a young age, and when he became older, he disguised himself and took refuge amidst the rabble of the town. Yet the people loved him. He grew into a fierce warrior, much like you, young Pendragon.” Dalined eyes Arthur with an unconcerned, thoughtful and open regard, and Arthur can’t help but shift under the speculative look. He frowns, even as Dalined continues, his mind desperately searching for his own answers within the narrative.
“He was strong and unafraid and had a rapport with those of lower birth that, much to our father’s fury, gained him a popularity unrivaled within the kingdom. Even by me. I could not resent him for this though; indeed I did what I could to support him. But for all the love that was given him…I don’t think he ever truly believed any of it. He listened to no one, and his heart had long grown jaded by abuse from a man that had successively forfeited any claim to his heart.
"And then…Something changed. He met a woman.” Dalined stops for a moment, looks thoughtful and faraway, something like sadness pulling the corners of his mouth into the familiar lines of a deep frown.
“She was a noble, though only barely. Honestly, I know little of her and her estate at that time. Only that her father had died and left her with no dowry and no prospects. To be honest I don’t even know how they met.” Dalined bows his head with a sigh, and takes another small sip of his wine before he once again firms his shoulders. “When our father found out…well perhaps you can imagine?” He offers a small nod at Uther, but continues quickly. “He did everything in his power to threaten them, to separate them, but she would accept neither bribe nor threat, and stood firmly at my brother's side, even as he stood like a living shield between her and all harm. Honestly, I think our father might have resorted to attempting murder upon her, but…perhaps they sensed what was to come? I…I still know so little to be honest, and it was something of a taboo subject even unto our father’s death. I do know that they eloped. And my brother was not so stupid as to think my father would gracefully accept the marriage. He left his crown and his name behind and vanished with her into the night, taking nothing with them but two horses and that which they would need for travel. I never saw them again."
“A fascinating tale indeed,” Uther says with a disappointed frown. “But I fail to see the relevance.”
“Ah yes, I am getting there. There is another lesson here though, and perhaps you might understand some of my…dislike of you from my tale?” And barely constrained animosity has once again settled upon his face. “You see, my brother was a proud man, if nothing else, and sought to gain his own fortune, by his own merits. He came to Camelot as a sorcerer of some power, not so long before your purges began…” Uther frowns deeply at this, his eyes going wide and his face ghostly pale.
“Did he…” Uther’s face hardens abruptly, “If he was a sorcerer…” Uther doesn’t seem able to quite finish the sentence behind the haunted sound that chokes up into his throat, and Arthur shifts in his seat, his hand surreptitiously reaching out to his father. No one speaks.
“No. He did not die. Not then at least, though you drove him away. Hunted him. Forced him from the woman he loved for fear that he would bring his fate upon her as well.” There is bitterness here. Pure and deep, and Arthur can’t help but flinch in sympathy.
“My lord, I am sorry for your loss. That pain, of losing someone you love…there are many here in Camelot who know it's like.” Dalined sighs, though his eyes soften as they settle upon Arthur. Something strangely pleased flits across his face at Arthur’s words.
“I blame you not, young prince. Your heart is true and I would not settle such a burden upon your shoulders. You are your own man, and I speak of choices that others have long since made, though it is time to speak of their consequences.”
Arthur nods slowly, eyes narrowed as he tracks the way the king once again flickers his eyes to study Merlin critically.
“Consequences...” Dalined trails off, “I will always regret my brother’s fate, but there are other sorrows that haunt me now. I am a young man no longer.” He is coldly clinical saying this, though his voice eases with affection when he continues. “Symria has always been somewhat of a volatile kingdom, but she has a strong heart and bears a strong people. Even still, I have entered the winter of my years, and for all her strength, I fear leaving my kingdom in such a state. I hesitate to name an heir among the nobles of my court. The nobility of Symria have grown soft with their hungers and heady with the power of their politics. And…”he pauses, lets the silence echo sharply expectant through the room, “I cannot in good conscience name an heir, when the blood of my father runs true and alive from the loins of my brother, Balinor.”
The sharp sound of a pitcher clattering to the ground sounds loud and dangerously obscene, and all eyes turn to Merlin, who has gone paler than even the still haunted countenance of Uther. Arthur frowns at him, watches from the corner of his eye as Merlin shifts shakily to the floor where he fumbles distractedly at trying to clean up the mess.
Arthur recovers first. “He was the dragon lord,” he supplies after a moment, remembering the haggard man they had found in a cave of a far off forest. “The one we sent for when the Great Dragon escaped.” He frowns deeply. Confusion and annoyance rush through him, agitating his blood, and he can’t quite grasp where this is going, what Dalined’s is leading up to.
“Indeed he was a dragon lord.” Dalined sits back, a smug tightness to his face.
“And yet you come to Camelot?”
“Camelot, indeed. You see, the woman he left behind bore a son. I wonder if Balinor ever knew this? But she bore a son in the small village to which he relegated her, to keep her safe, and that son eventually came to Camelot. A mere serving boy, it seems. Tell me…Merlin, did he know you were his son?”
Arthur, who catches on only a moment before everyone else, turns sharply back to Merlin. Shock rips through him, and a sharp pain catches in his throat and fuels the blaze of sudden betrayal that flares in his breast.
Merlin has frozen wide eyed, but there is resignation in the sloping of his shoulders, and Arthur has an answer, even if Merlin has yet to speak.
“Yes.”
~~~
Merlin thinks the moment is akin to getting wounded. That brief period of time before the brain catches up with the pain and the surprise and the blood, and everything is distant in a fascinating sort of way. At least until the pain finally does catch up, and it consumes all the senses in shocking waves of inescapable reality. Merlin has not yet reached that point, though he has the sinking realization that it is closer to hand that he would ever want.
A wave of exhaustion washes over him in the late hour, and he lets himself relax against a Gaius who has appeared at his side to whisk him quickly from the room. The man’s steady hands at his shoulders are a blessedly cool relief to the fever-pitch of his magic and his skin, and a burning pain that he has no physical mark to show for it, but is biting and sharp nonetheless.
He’s just glad to be away from Arthur’s piercing gaze. The prince’s hard looks saw too deeply into truths he had not been ready to reveal, and many he had hoped never to. So it is just as well that Gaius seems willing to take control of the situation and guide him quickly away, a calm blanket against the sharp whispers that follow and cut like a blade.
The chilled stone hallways is a relief to his over warm skin after the heavy and stifling heat of the banquet hall. What happens to the two kings, to Arthur, he isn’t sure. All he can do to force his mind away from them. There is some betrayal here, he thinks, in having had such essential knowledge once again denied to him, and he shrugs irritably out of Gaius’ hold at that realization. He steps away and presses his back firmly against the cool stone, his hands settling palms flat against the surface beside him, head tilted back. The cold is comforting, helps to ground him a bit, and he closes his eyes for a long moment, breathes deeply. Tries not to think of betrayal and wounds and puzzle pieces slotting into holes he hadn’t even known existed.
“Come now,” Gaius says to the stone by his shoulder, and a deep suspicion settles deeply in Merlin’s chest so rapidly and sharply that he’s left breathless.
“You knew!” He jerks his head forward. If his eyes flash gold in anger and power roiling so close beneath his skin, Gaius says nothing. His slumped shoulders relay the things they both know the old man will never admit to.
“Not everything. I suspected, well I suspected many things, to be honest, but neither Hunith nor Balinor ever said anything. Besides,” Gaius looks so terribly tired. Merlin thinks that he is too young to recognize the feeling in the heaviness of his own limbs. “I don’t think your father would have wanted to be known like that. His legacy was that of dragon lord, not prince.” Except that isn’t true, apparently, and Merlin is the living breathing proof of that. “Now come. Please Merlin. You need to rest. Tomorrow will be…long.” Gaius manages to guide him away from the wall and down the corridor with little effort.
Merlin is still numb when they finally make it back to Gaius’ quarters. Still separated from his body, watching his skin bleed from the sharp pain of newly opened wounds in the disassociated way that makes everything fuzzy and not quite real. Not yet. The real pain is still yet to come. The growing pains as nerves reconnect and force skin back together in mocking simile to what was once there.
In the end, he’s not sure if he’s grateful for the sleeping drought that Gaius finally presses to his lips.
He dreams of dragons and destiny.
~~~
The room all but erupts in surprise, and Arthur watches his father warily as he pushes to his feet in a sway of drunken fury. Uther’s face is deep red, though his concentration seems to be more focused on the other king than on Merlin, who is quickly shepherded, stumbling, from the room by a clearly shaken Gaius.
Everything has fallen into a controlled blaze of yelling turmoil that has Uther red in the face and King Dalined coldly pushing his consort’s fingers away from him. Arthur thinks he understands the king’s irritation, and his own skin itches in sympathy even as his fingers curl into fists that scratch bloody crescents into his palm. The yelling in the large, echoing room is loud, but has no substance. Arthur might have flinched at Uther’s crazed look, had he not been in his own kind of shock. He understands though that his father’s yelling is little more than a defense mechanism, and for now Arthur is only grateful that he has not yet made any serious threats. He's grateful also for the calming presence of the knights, who have begun marshaling quickly people out of the hall.
He knows that Uther is beyond rational thought now, and he sighs heavily to himself as he takes hold of his father’s shoulders. Arthur forces himself to stand firm and solid against the fight in his father's body, though Uther seems to be too drunk to sustain the effort for long. As soon as Dalined is out of his eyesight, he goes limp and drunkenly pliant. Arthur catches Leon’s eye, lets his father’s manservant step close as well, now that the threat of bodily harm seems to have passed, and gratefully releases him to their care.
And then it is relatively easy to slip unnoticed from the hall himself, content that his father will be taken care of, and he moves swiftly, for fear of shaking if he slows, down the corridor toward his chambers. The fire has long since died down when he arrives and he thinks he should… he shakes his head. He cannot call Merlin to light it, and he wonders if it’s strange to feel this betrayal worse than any.
His strangely enigmatic manservant, with his bright smiles and hidden wisdom, who somehow manages to make less sense, despite this new piece of the puzzle Arthur can add to the picture he's constructing in his mind. He thinks it all must make some sense. Surely. It certainly explains…he shakes his head to rid it of the image of pained tears hidden behind a clenched fist.
Balinor was Merlin’s father.
The words roll through his mind over and over again, leaving him in turns hot and cold. Balinor was Merlin’s father. What does that make Merlin? He can't bring himself to examine the sneaking suspicion pulling at his mind. Not yet. He’s not ready for the lies that come with that answer. The lies Merlin has told him, will tell him. The lies he will tell himself.
For a moment, the image of Morgana, straight backed and smug as a crown is set upon her head, flashes through his brain, leaving him breathless with a hurt he doesn’t dare dwell upon.
Merlin is not Morgana. He’s not.
He shifts restlessly around the room, thinks about calling another servant and ignores the idea almost immediately. He’s fairly certain he might do something he regrets, because the servant who slips through the door won't be Merlin. Besides, the room's chill helps to ease the sharp ache writhing beneath his skin, numbs the pain and the fear of what is yet to come, though it simultaneously makes him anxiously restless and angry. He snags a goblet off the table and throws it sharply at the wall, the harsh metallic clang not quite the clash of swords, but momentarily as satisfying.
Dalined must have some purpose yet. He's left something unsaid, and Arthur can’t decide if the itch in his mind is desperation to know, or conviction that he doesn’t want to. And maybe, just maybe, Arthur admits, an ache of loss is mixed into it all. The loss of a servant is not something new, but the loss of a friend hurts. He has had so few of them in his life.
He sighs and shrugs the jacket from his shoulder, tosses it rebelliously to the floor, and imagines a world where Merlin might actually be there to clear it away, his snide remarks blanketing unwavering loyalty and trust Arthur's not often sure he deserves.
No one’s ever made him question what he deserves before. The world has always been his by right. Only Merlin ever made him feel the need to work for his privilege. He wonders what that means.
In the end, he does call a servant, a young boy all polite smiles, acquiescent bows and unnervingly sincere "sires." He eases the clothes from Arthur’s body more clinically than Merlin ever managed, but also, so much less, and he wonders at the contradiction as he is led to a bath that is unexpectedly colder than the baths that Merlin would draw for him.
~~~
Merlin wakes with a low groan, his fingers clenching instinctively at his thin scratchy blanket. He pulls it over his head to block out the stream of light that always starts its morning journey across his eyes, no matter how he positions the bed. His head aches and the fuzziness in his mouth tells him he has either imbibed too much alcohol or one of Gaius’ potions.
It takes him an embarrassingly long moment to remember which.
The flash of memories makes him wince. They curl into his gut and settle heavily with expectation. He doesn’t know what is going to happen today, but the sinking feeling that something, his life, his life in Camelot, is forever changed, hangs heavy in the air and in his restless joints. In some ways, the deep sleep has helped to ease some of the tension from his body. The truths he has learned have settled deep into his bones, no less painful, but at least more recognizably his.
He finally manages to force himself up, the blankets shifting and pooling at his waist, bright in the pale early light of a new morning. It might as well be a new world. One where he goes to bed a servant and wakes up…
He throws his legs over the side of the bed, arches his spine, rolls his shoulders, and wonders if he is still expected to attend to Arthur. He knows the answer, though, and rolls the ‘no’ through his head instead of letting his mind dwell on the name that has always ever been synonymous with ‘destiny’. A wash of sadness crashes over him for a moment as he recognizes some kind of ending here, and he sighs as he cautiously slips out of his room. Bolstered by muscle memory, and the confidence that it instills, he is pulled up short in surprise, then, by the presence of two knights in the black and blue livery of Dalined's guard when he slips quietly into the main chambers.
“Highness” one of them greets him, and Merlin has to quell the urge to turn and look for Arthur. Only, they’re speaking to him, and he can’t help but feel terribly confused and out of his depth when faced with the expectant looks cast his way.
“Um” he replies weakly, suddenly at a loss.
“If you’ll follow us,” the same man continues smoothly, and before Merlin has a chance to make even more of a fool of himself, he finds himself following the two knights down the long hallways and into the guest wing of the castle, bypassing the room that belongs to King Dalined by one. The man who has yet to speak quickly pushes open the door to a surprising bustle of activity, and Merlin shifts into the room uncomfortable, confused, and overwhelmed.
King Dalined sits comfortably at the small table in the middle of the room, expertly slipping a sharp knife into the smooth, red flesh of an apple. When he sees Merlin, he motions him forward with a hand dripping sweet juice.
“Merlin,” he drawls, continuing to motion him forward until Merlin stands an arm's breadth away from him. The king’s eyes slowly travel up and down his body. “You…” Dalined pauses and then sighs, “you look like my mother” he finally whispers, reaching out to trace over Merlin’s cheek, and Merlin is momentarily startled by the sudden shock of touch and the deeply personal revelation. “You have her eyes and her build and her complexion,” Dalined continues softly. “I knew you the moment I saw you.”
Merlin nods slowly, his own eyes tracking over the king’s form, cataloguing the hard jaw, dark hair now streaked heavily with gray and ragged build so like a man he had only met briefly and tragically. “You look like…,” he can’t bring himself to say ‘my father’. The words are too painful though Dalined seems to understand, for he nods before motioning Merlin to sit in the chair across from him.
Neither says anything for a long time, and Merlin can’t quite shake the feeling that there is some test here, though he can’t convince himself he cares to pass. He wants to ask what this man, this stranger, wants from him. He senses that something more is at play, a feeling that has served him well in the past. Arthur isn’t the only one with good instincts and… A sudden thought whips sharply through him, and his eyes widen as an implication he hadn’t thought of before occurs to him like a smack to the face.
“I won’t leave Arthur” he says sharply, breaking the silence that has reigned between them. Dalined looks faintly surprised at first, though the look quickly turns into twinkling amusement that leaves Merlin feeling like he's missed the punch line of one of Gwaine’s jokes.
“We shall see,” Dalined finally says. “Who knows what the future shall bring.” Merlin wants to tell him that he knows, he has a destiny, but Dalined continues, “For now it will not do for my heir to be,” he stops and he shifts his eyes over Merlin in a much more superficial way, “dressed like a servant”.
“What’s wrong with my clothes?" Merlin says in surprised offense, though the word ‘heir’ sits sticky in his brain.
Which is how Merlin finds himself at the mercy of half-a-dozen servants, dripping wet and blushing as he is scrubbed and prodded and poked and brushed. Sweet smelling soaps are massaged firmly into his skin, his hair is trimmed and brushed, and thin splinters of wood are used to clean the grime from under his fingernails. He feels eternally grateful that Dalined hasn’t seen fit to oversee the entire damnable process himself.
How did Arthur stand this, this deeply personal invasion of his body? But then again, Merlin knows that Arthur has been through this process since he was a child. And it’s all he can do to stop the upwelling of panic that crashes through him once again. He’s not a prince. He doesn’t have the first clue how to be one, and even a lifetime as Arthur’s servant, at Arthur’s side, wouldn’t be enough to teach him.
His thoughts flash sharply back to only a few short months ago, to the image of a round table, and Arthur standing gilded in the pale light filtering through the dust-stained windows, achingly lovely and comfortable and regal in a way that Uther would never understand. And Merlin can’t be that. Can’t stand and inspire and love in equal measure. His wisdom and his power, his love, it’s too selfish. He is for Arthur.
He’s finally jolted sharply back into the moment when one of the servants gently takes hold of his arm and tugs him to stand in front of a gilt mirror standing imposingly against the far wall. He doesn’t recognize the tall pale stranger staring back at him from the shiny surface, outwardly calm, despite the roiling emotions beneath his skin that leaves him feeling short of breath.
His skin gleams pale in the warm morning sunshine, a study in shadow and light made all the more stark by the rich blue silk of his tunic and soft black of the fitted leather. His hands flutter nervously at the seam of his doublet, then up to the neatly trimmed edge of his hair. Curious and just a little lost in his own skin, he forces himself to turn away. He will have to reconcile himself with the strange prince in the mirror eventually; though he has a suspicion the process will be a slow one.
The servants clear out quickly after, and in near silence, and as the door clicks shut behind them it doesn’t sound so different than the clang of a dungeon door.
He’s not sure how long he sits there, lost in thought. Still he looks up in surprise when the door clicks open once more. He doesn’t even try to suppress the relieved half-quirk of his lips as a familiar figure steps into the room.
“Gwen!” he calls out in relief, jumping up and moving to embrace her, before stopping short at her slightly stunned look. He freezes a few feet away from her, rocks back on his heels and wraps his arms self-consciously around his middle.
“Merlin, you…” she trails off, “gods, look at you” she softens and takes the last step forward to pull him into a warm embrace that Merlin can only melt gratefully into.
“I can’t do this Gwen,” he whispers when he pulls reluctantly back from her warm arms.
“You can! I know you can, Merlin. You’re not like the rest of us. You never have been. This is your chance to do something. Be something more than just a servant. Besides,” Gwen smiles gently as she pulls back another arm’s length away from him. “You’ve got me.”
He looks up at her gratefully then, offers a small smile that she echoes, though her eyes are guarded. He can see the war in her face between her beautiful and natural compassion, and a hurt of her own.
He sees when her compassion wins, though, and he offers a soft “Thank you Gwen.” His reply heartfelt, and he feels something catch in his chest and low in his throat as looks at her and takes stock of her unwavering loyalty and love, despite everything.
“It won’t be all bad Merlin,” she says quietly, before moving to pull another chair up to his side where she sits unobtrusively and lets him have a moment. He is unutterably grateful, although he is determined to not let such shows of emotion become a habit. He has stared down some of the world’s most powerful sorcerers and dangerous beasts and barely blinked. This is nothing compared to that and he forces himself to calm down. To stop and center himself so he can begin to figure out how to actually deal with everything. He has the feeling that no one will give him the time to try to figure this out the way he desperately wants to, and the sooner he can get himself under control, the better this will turn out for him. He hopes.
Gwen seems to realize that he’s calmed down again, and she tentatively offers a soft “Better?” with a half-smile, which quickly bursts forth in full force when he nods his head slowly.
“Yeah. I think so, yeah. Thanks.”
She nods and gently touches his arm again, drawing his attention. Her eyes are wide and familiar. He feels inexplicably calmer for her gentle company. The openness in her expression that is warm and familiar and makes his gut clench at the knowledge that he has such a truly good friend in her.
For a moment, one brief second that stretches in his mind like molasses, he thinks he might tell her about his magic as well. He clamps his mouth shut though, even as he leans into her support.
Too many secrets have been let lose in too short a time.
~~~
“So…” he trails off, hours later, as Gaius sits solemnly across from him at the table in his room “I don’t know what I’m actually supposed to do,” he sighs, “I’m not Arthur. I don’t know how to be…I’m not a prince, Gaius, no matter who my father was.” He can feel himself getting worked up and he stops for a long moment to take a deep breath. He has been told very little yet of what his fate is to be, and he has been chewing compulsively at his fingernails for hours now, trying to puzzle out the increasingly unlikely scenarios playing through in his mind.
Gaius sighs at him and raises a high eyebrow. There’s something suspiciously like amusement in the turn of his mouth, though his eyes remain hard and serious. He is hesitating, Merlin knows.
Finally, he says, “If you were a… well if you were a woman.”
Merlin makes a half-choked sound.
“Even as you are clearly not a woman, it is likely that Dalined will propose marriage. While such relations are rarely condoned or openly practiced amongst the common people,” Gaius pauses for a moment. “It is not unheard of for two men of noble heritage to marry, if there is something to be gained from it.”
Gaius chuckles weakly, though it's not humorous in the least. Merlin can do nothing but frown. He doesn’t understand.
“Marriage?” he asks carefully, confused. Gaius sits back in his seat and doesn’t answer. It takes Merlin a long moment to finally wrap his mind around what he is being told. Then it takes another moment, still, before his voice is stable enough to actually speak.
“Marriage between me…and Arthur?” Gaius merely nods at slowly at him and winces in sympathy. “You think that’s what will happen?”
“It is likely. King Dalined can’t very well just hand you a kingdom. You don’t know the first thing about running a country, nor do you seem overly interested in the politics and intrigues of court. And Dalined hates Uther, so he’s not very likely to make an alliance with him, despite the advantages of allying with Camelot itself. Arthur, however, is young and quite different from his father. Through Arthur, Symria gets both the advantage of being allied with Camelot, but also the added bonus of gaining a young and well-respected future leader. Camelot gets the benefit of protection and friendship with such a powerful nation.
“So basically, you’re saying he’s going to give Arthur an entire kingdom through me, and bypass Uther all together?”
Gaius nods, “Exactly. And everyone wins, more or less.”
“Except for me,” Merlin retorts sourly, “I’m the one who gets stuck marrying the prat! Are you sure?”
The old physician just shrugs. Nothing is certain at this point, and they are just lucky Uther’s suspicions have yet to actively turn to Merlin.
Finally Gaius speaks again, slowly, “It’s a good political match, if Uther and Dalined can actually agree on anything.”
“So I won’t actually have to, you know, rule a kingdom then?” Merlin asks, frowning when Gaius shakes his head ruefully at him and makes a half-sigh, half-laugh that echoes in Merlin’s ears for a moment. Merlin knows he is exasperating the old man, but talking through his possible future is helping to ease some of his concerns, even as a whole new batch of fears and insecurities begin to war in his head.
“Well I didn’t say that, exactly. I’m sure they’ll help you, Dalined and Arthur, show you what to do and how to act. Despite all appearances, you are smart. You’ll be fine. The truth is, once Arthur becomes king of Camelot, he’ll probably merge the two kingdoms formally together under one banner. But you’ll still have to stand at his side.”
“I swear to god,” Merlin mutters, long suffering, and because there’s nothing else he can think to say, he adds, “If he calls me his queen, I will punch him in the face…or, or, something!” They both know, of course, that Merlin couldn’t land a blow to Arthur even if he tried. Because he has, tried that is, and failed rather miserably every time. Suddenly Dalined’s earlier amusement makes a lot of unfortunate sense.
Gaius pats him gently and encouragingly on the arm, and Merlin can’t help the small resigned, if bashful, smile he sends him in return. Nor can he help the sudden surge of warmth and affection for the old man. He has been a good friend and mentor, and despite everything that’s happened, everything that will happen in the future, he feels better knowing that Gaius will be at his side to help him along the way.
Part 2 or Master Post
Author: castmeaway
Artist: reni_m
Beta: piscaria
Pairing: A/M
Rating: nc-17
Warnings: dub-con and [character death]Uther and Morgause
Word Count: ~33,00
Summary: A Camelot still reeling from Morgana’s betrayal plays host to the visiting king of the only nation militant enough to pose a viable threat. Only, a surprising twist is revealed when the heirless king of that nation announces that the dragon lord Balinor was actually his formerly lost and disinherited brother, therefore making Balinor’s son, Merlin, the sole blood heir to his throne.
Polarity
Nay, why reproach each other, be unkind,
For there's no plane on which we two may meet?
Let's both forgive, forget, for both were blind,
And life is of a day, and time is fleet.
And I am fire, swift to flame and burn,
Melting with elements high overhead,
While you are water in an earthly urn,
All pure, but heavy, and of hue like lead. -Claude Mckay
Morgana swirls her hands through the dark cloud of liquid, her nails leaving small furrows for the breadth of a heartbeat, before they fill in with gentle trailing ripples.
“Show me,” she breathes, focusing her intent, opening her heart and her magic. She is searching. Searching… reaching out with everything that she is and willing the dark waters to show her what she needs. A source of magic powerful enough to do what she cannot on her own.
She feels her eyes flash and her fingers tingle as an image blurs on the waving surface. She squints, focuses on the thread of her magic fueling, enhancing, the thing growing in her mind.
She gasps suddenly and stumbles back at what she sees. Her heart hardens. Her veins run icy in a sharp hatred, then soothe when she remembers her plans. Plans that suddenly become all the sweeter for the revenge that she shall reap in the process.
She needs power, needs a source for her aim, and in the slim body of a once-friend she will get it, and so much more. The irony pleases her, the beautiful balance of it.
Revenge, she thinks, will be sweet in the taking, and magnificent in its reward.
~~~
Part 1:
“Merlin” Arthur says, “Where the hell have you been? The feast starts soon and if you don’t hurry up I’ll be late. Tell me you have my…”
Merlin hurries to his side, sheepishly holding out the jacket Arthur is waiting for. “Here, sire.”
Arthur snatches the garment away with a put-upon grump of exasperation and slides it round his shoulders. The high collar and the shock of red lights up his features, makes his eyes more strikingly blue and his hair more brilliantly golden, and Merlin can’t help but admire the look for the easy grace that it adds to a man who is already achingly comfortable in his own skin.
“Besides,” Merlin continues undeterred by Arthur's long suffering and familiar huff of annoyance, “It’s alright. You won’t be late. Gwen told me that the lady Ellyna is having a bit of a fit because her favorite dress has a tear. She can’t decide what to wear now, and has half the serving staff in an uproar. Morgana was never…” he trails off as he realizes what he was about to say so thoughtlessly, and he forcibly ignores the pained, pinched look that flitters across Arthur’s face, sliding from behind his eyes as if it had merely been waiting for the chance to do so. “Everything’ll be at least half an hour late,” Merlin finishes quietly.
Not that his reply excuses him, exactly. He can feel it in the way Arthur’s shoulders stay tensed beneath the fussing of Merlin's long fingers, nimble from exhaustive practice.
He is ready, then, when Arthur finally swats his hands away. Merlin's muted laugh in return, meant to ease the tension that has slid between them like a wall, earns him a baleful glare that doesn’t quite hide the slow emergence of humor in the prince's eyes. Merlin steps back quickly, grinning in the face of Arthur's determined irritation. This is an old game. Comforting for its familiarity and its ability to leave things understood but unsaid between them. Neither of them has ever been very good at the whole business of talking, which, Merlin often muses, is just as well. He’s willing to take any justification he can find for the secrets that lie like a gulf between them.
“Will I be serving the high table tonight?” he finally asks when Arthur relaxes a bit, daring to dart in and brush an invisible speck of dust from soft red suede, linger over a button that is only a little more shiny at the passing of his long fingers.
Arthur nods and visibly deflates. It will be a long night and they both know it. It is also to be the first real banquet since, well, since the events that nobody talks about. The betrayal no one will openly acknowledge.
Everything has only just settled itself back into a state not so far off from what once passed for normalcy here in Camelot, though the emotional wounds are still deep and the castle itself still shows remnants of the rubbled memorial of Morgana’s betrayal. The wounds in Uther, however, run deeper than most, and Arthur is obviously worried about him, though Uther has been more his old self lately, if prone to sharp melancholies and increasingly scathing criticism of just about everyone, especially Arthur.
Not that Uther, therefore Arthur’s, improved humors mean anything in the face of the diplomatic party of King Dalined and his consort, lady Ellyna. Symria’s tolerance toward magic is a strain on relations with Camelot at even the best of times, which is most certainly not the current case.
“You, ah, you haven’t heard anything have you?” Arthur ventures after a few minutes of silence. “From Dalined’s servants about why they’re here? Things have always been tense between our kingdoms but they’ve never shown any serious intentions toward us one way or another before. It’s strange that they would come to Camelot now.”
Merlin shrugs and shakes his head. He has heard as much over the last couple of days. More, in the way that gossip travels rampant amongst the servants of both nations. The two kingdoms have always had a sort of tense understanding, equal as they have long been in armed strength. The thing is, say the whispers floating around the castle, now that Cenred is gone, only Dalined is powerful enough to successfully mount an attack against Camelot, should he wish it. With everything that has happened, no one is entirely certain Camelot could withstand that attack. The fact that Dalined is far advanced in his own age, and with no named heir, is further cause for concern. Should one of their enemies take advantage of the situation and conquer Symria with even a hint of conquest running through their veins, Camelot could be in serious trouble.
“They’ve all kept to themselves. I haven’t noticed anything out of place, except . . . ” Merlin imagines the shadowed glances that prickle against his skin, and leave him with that awful ‘what am I forgetting?’ feeling. He pauses, shakes his head. “It’s probably nothing.”
“What’s probably nothing?” Arthur says with such obviously forced nonchalance that Merlin can’t help but wonder why he puts any effort to it at all.
Merlin shifts briefly in hesitation before saying, “It’s just, well, sometimes I catch them looking at me. King Dalined, as well.”
“Looking at you?” Arthur crows incredulous. “You’re worried because they look at you?”
“Well…I mean, yes? It’s strange. They don’t treat me like another servant is all” he finally mutters. He shrugs helplessly at Arthur and offers one of his trademark grins. “Like I said, probably nothing. Gaius seems to agree, although he’s been acting kind of…strange as well, since the king arrived.”
“Gaius is probably right. Don’t be such a girl. Only you would be worried about someone looking at you. Although.” Arthur stops and studies him critically for a moment. “No one’s approached you about anything untoward have they? You may be an incompetent servant, but if you’re worried about anything…”
Merlin’s swallows back a small smile at Arthur, then, so willing to protect him, even as he offers an affectionate insult in the very same moment. Which doesn’t make it all any less insultingly irritating. But then, that’s sort of the story of their relationship.
Merlin snorts at this. “I can take care of myself, you know”. He adds an impertinent “Sire” just to be on the safe side, and then glares at Arthur’s skeptical countenance. “They’re just looks, and I’m probably being paranoid anyway.” He hopes.
And the thing is, it really is silly, although not so terribly outlandish that Arthur doesn’t seem to consider the matter, if only briefly, before waving it all away with a flutter of his hand. Clearly dismissive. Only Merlin knows that looks really can kill. Not that he is about to tell Arthur this. As often as he saves the prince’s life, protecting Arthur frequently if equally means protecting him from discovering that there are things he can’t defend himself against. ‘No need to have a paranoid prince’, Merlin thinks only half-laughingly. What Arthur doesn’t know might still kill him, but it has to get through Merlin first.
Merlin rolls his eyes, a gesture no less mockingly grandiose than the sweep of his arm meant to usher Arthur forward and out the door. “Shall we, my lord?”
Arthur brushes past him and into the hallway, pulling Merlin forward as inexorably as if they were joined by ties more physical than mere loyalty.
~~~
King Dalined sits back languorously in his chair, blatantly ignoring the simpering lady Ellyna as she slides closer to him, threads her arm through his and tugs restlessly at his body. Dalined’s gaze is fixed solidly upon Uther and his barely-constrained, if visibly curious, impatience. The focused intensity in Dalined’s strikingly blue eyes leaves him quite clearly and willfully unaware of the breathless expectation circulating through the room, so that Arthur can’t help but feel uncomfortable and frustrated with his own expectation.
As it is, the night has been remarkably uneventful, for which everyone is happy. Uther looks more relaxed than he’s been in a long time, his face flushed with wine and the surprisingly interesting company that the visiting king is proving to be. Arthur is just relieved. He is pleased and surprised with Uther's strange, if slightly manic good cheer, though he can’t help but feel a wary expectation that something is yet to come. He has unfortunately good instincts. The night has been going too well, and he is irritated with the way that his body stays sharply on edge.
“Your story then, Dalined,” Uther says as he waves Merlin impatiently forward with his decanter of wine. They have long progressed into the night, and despite the lazy stupor that has taken hold of most of the room, no one seems quite willing to leave, for the expectation that sizzles hotly around them.
Arthur narrows his eyes as he notes Dalined breaking his concentration then, to follow Merlin’s movement with unnatural attentiveness in a shockingly visible display of proof to Merlin’s earlier concerns. “Boy,” Dalined voice is slow and calculating, “my cup runs low as well.” Even in the face of such tension, Merlin only hesitates a moment, his wide eyes flickering briefly to Arthurs, before he slides quickly forward and completes his duty. If he hastens away far more quickly than is necessarily proper before the overbearing heat of such a blatantly considering look, and from a king no less, no one bothers to say anything. Nor is there comment at the itching of Arthur’s finger’s where they have come to rest on the ceremonial dagger strapped to his side. Surely this is no less an improper gesture, though Merlin clearly notices, and flashes him a small inscrutable look.
“Your story, my lord?” This time, Arthur lets the prompt slide from his own lips, though his eyes track Dalined warily. He lets the smooth lines of his shoulders ease, perhaps forcibly, though his gloved fingers continue to rest ready at the hilt of his dagger, still deadly for all of its frillery.
“Ah yes, my story. Indeed, the very reason I am here in Camelot. But I shall get to that in a moment.” And Dalined, who until that moment has ignored the lady Ellyna’s gentle tugging, pushes her firmly away to her shocked protests and straightens his back. He puffs his chest in readiness and takes a second to wet his lips with a sip of wine, though his gaze remains cast to the side, following the subtle fidgeting of Merlin’s fingers.
“Never have we been friends,” he begins, and Arthur watches in curiosity as the man shifts his attention to Uther with heretofore-concealed animosity, “But perhaps you know that I once had a younger brother?” He doesn’t pause for an answer. “Surely the phrase ‘an heir and a spare’ made its rounds, even within my hearing, and I was still a young child at his birth. Still, I loved him, though it became clear very quickly that this was not so for my father. I have my suspicions, of course, as to why. No one ever spoke the words “bastard” within my hearing, though it was widely suspected, if never quite proved. For this reason and others, my father despised the boy with a hatred, or perhaps resentment is a more accurate word, that once belonged solely to our mother.”
"Though magic is now banned here in Camelot, and much of Albion besides, this was not so at that time, and what you must understand is that my mother . . . ” he trails off for a moment, eyes soft at some memory. He blatantly ignores Uther’s hard look at the mention of magic. “My mother was a very powerful woman. Her family could trace its heritage to some of the most powerful priestesses of the land, and my father…he was jealous of that power. He had married her with the hope of controlling her, controlling her power to his whims, and when he found himself unable to harness her will to his…It made him hard and angry. When my brother, at such a young age began to show signs of that which he resented and craved in equal measure, such easy power, and practically unheard of for a High Priestesses’ abilities to pass to a boy child, my father grew cold to him as well. Even as his hate began to grow towards my mother and brother, so did his estimation of me begin to rise in equal measure. It was… not an easy life, though that is neither here nor there.”
The court has grown gravely silent and even his father, despite the suspicion and impatience that lingers in the corner of his eyes, looks mildly interested in the story. Dalined is no great storyteller, but near-tangible emotions flirt around the words.
“As time went on,” Dalined continues softly, “things only became more difficult. Our mother died when I was barely of majority, and with her passing, my brother became morose and spiteful. Any love and protection he could claim died with her. It was for this reason that he often disappeared for long stretches of time into the woods to hunt, even at such a young age, and when he became older, he disguised himself and took refuge amidst the rabble of the town. Yet the people loved him. He grew into a fierce warrior, much like you, young Pendragon.” Dalined eyes Arthur with an unconcerned, thoughtful and open regard, and Arthur can’t help but shift under the speculative look. He frowns, even as Dalined continues, his mind desperately searching for his own answers within the narrative.
“He was strong and unafraid and had a rapport with those of lower birth that, much to our father’s fury, gained him a popularity unrivaled within the kingdom. Even by me. I could not resent him for this though; indeed I did what I could to support him. But for all the love that was given him…I don’t think he ever truly believed any of it. He listened to no one, and his heart had long grown jaded by abuse from a man that had successively forfeited any claim to his heart.
"And then…Something changed. He met a woman.” Dalined stops for a moment, looks thoughtful and faraway, something like sadness pulling the corners of his mouth into the familiar lines of a deep frown.
“She was a noble, though only barely. Honestly, I know little of her and her estate at that time. Only that her father had died and left her with no dowry and no prospects. To be honest I don’t even know how they met.” Dalined bows his head with a sigh, and takes another small sip of his wine before he once again firms his shoulders. “When our father found out…well perhaps you can imagine?” He offers a small nod at Uther, but continues quickly. “He did everything in his power to threaten them, to separate them, but she would accept neither bribe nor threat, and stood firmly at my brother's side, even as he stood like a living shield between her and all harm. Honestly, I think our father might have resorted to attempting murder upon her, but…perhaps they sensed what was to come? I…I still know so little to be honest, and it was something of a taboo subject even unto our father’s death. I do know that they eloped. And my brother was not so stupid as to think my father would gracefully accept the marriage. He left his crown and his name behind and vanished with her into the night, taking nothing with them but two horses and that which they would need for travel. I never saw them again."
“A fascinating tale indeed,” Uther says with a disappointed frown. “But I fail to see the relevance.”
“Ah yes, I am getting there. There is another lesson here though, and perhaps you might understand some of my…dislike of you from my tale?” And barely constrained animosity has once again settled upon his face. “You see, my brother was a proud man, if nothing else, and sought to gain his own fortune, by his own merits. He came to Camelot as a sorcerer of some power, not so long before your purges began…” Uther frowns deeply at this, his eyes going wide and his face ghostly pale.
“Did he…” Uther’s face hardens abruptly, “If he was a sorcerer…” Uther doesn’t seem able to quite finish the sentence behind the haunted sound that chokes up into his throat, and Arthur shifts in his seat, his hand surreptitiously reaching out to his father. No one speaks.
“No. He did not die. Not then at least, though you drove him away. Hunted him. Forced him from the woman he loved for fear that he would bring his fate upon her as well.” There is bitterness here. Pure and deep, and Arthur can’t help but flinch in sympathy.
“My lord, I am sorry for your loss. That pain, of losing someone you love…there are many here in Camelot who know it's like.” Dalined sighs, though his eyes soften as they settle upon Arthur. Something strangely pleased flits across his face at Arthur’s words.
“I blame you not, young prince. Your heart is true and I would not settle such a burden upon your shoulders. You are your own man, and I speak of choices that others have long since made, though it is time to speak of their consequences.”
Arthur nods slowly, eyes narrowed as he tracks the way the king once again flickers his eyes to study Merlin critically.
“Consequences...” Dalined trails off, “I will always regret my brother’s fate, but there are other sorrows that haunt me now. I am a young man no longer.” He is coldly clinical saying this, though his voice eases with affection when he continues. “Symria has always been somewhat of a volatile kingdom, but she has a strong heart and bears a strong people. Even still, I have entered the winter of my years, and for all her strength, I fear leaving my kingdom in such a state. I hesitate to name an heir among the nobles of my court. The nobility of Symria have grown soft with their hungers and heady with the power of their politics. And…”he pauses, lets the silence echo sharply expectant through the room, “I cannot in good conscience name an heir, when the blood of my father runs true and alive from the loins of my brother, Balinor.”
The sharp sound of a pitcher clattering to the ground sounds loud and dangerously obscene, and all eyes turn to Merlin, who has gone paler than even the still haunted countenance of Uther. Arthur frowns at him, watches from the corner of his eye as Merlin shifts shakily to the floor where he fumbles distractedly at trying to clean up the mess.
Arthur recovers first. “He was the dragon lord,” he supplies after a moment, remembering the haggard man they had found in a cave of a far off forest. “The one we sent for when the Great Dragon escaped.” He frowns deeply. Confusion and annoyance rush through him, agitating his blood, and he can’t quite grasp where this is going, what Dalined’s is leading up to.
“Indeed he was a dragon lord.” Dalined sits back, a smug tightness to his face.
“And yet you come to Camelot?”
“Camelot, indeed. You see, the woman he left behind bore a son. I wonder if Balinor ever knew this? But she bore a son in the small village to which he relegated her, to keep her safe, and that son eventually came to Camelot. A mere serving boy, it seems. Tell me…Merlin, did he know you were his son?”
Arthur, who catches on only a moment before everyone else, turns sharply back to Merlin. Shock rips through him, and a sharp pain catches in his throat and fuels the blaze of sudden betrayal that flares in his breast.
Merlin has frozen wide eyed, but there is resignation in the sloping of his shoulders, and Arthur has an answer, even if Merlin has yet to speak.
“Yes.”
~~~
Merlin thinks the moment is akin to getting wounded. That brief period of time before the brain catches up with the pain and the surprise and the blood, and everything is distant in a fascinating sort of way. At least until the pain finally does catch up, and it consumes all the senses in shocking waves of inescapable reality. Merlin has not yet reached that point, though he has the sinking realization that it is closer to hand that he would ever want.
A wave of exhaustion washes over him in the late hour, and he lets himself relax against a Gaius who has appeared at his side to whisk him quickly from the room. The man’s steady hands at his shoulders are a blessedly cool relief to the fever-pitch of his magic and his skin, and a burning pain that he has no physical mark to show for it, but is biting and sharp nonetheless.
He’s just glad to be away from Arthur’s piercing gaze. The prince’s hard looks saw too deeply into truths he had not been ready to reveal, and many he had hoped never to. So it is just as well that Gaius seems willing to take control of the situation and guide him quickly away, a calm blanket against the sharp whispers that follow and cut like a blade.
The chilled stone hallways is a relief to his over warm skin after the heavy and stifling heat of the banquet hall. What happens to the two kings, to Arthur, he isn’t sure. All he can do to force his mind away from them. There is some betrayal here, he thinks, in having had such essential knowledge once again denied to him, and he shrugs irritably out of Gaius’ hold at that realization. He steps away and presses his back firmly against the cool stone, his hands settling palms flat against the surface beside him, head tilted back. The cold is comforting, helps to ground him a bit, and he closes his eyes for a long moment, breathes deeply. Tries not to think of betrayal and wounds and puzzle pieces slotting into holes he hadn’t even known existed.
“Come now,” Gaius says to the stone by his shoulder, and a deep suspicion settles deeply in Merlin’s chest so rapidly and sharply that he’s left breathless.
“You knew!” He jerks his head forward. If his eyes flash gold in anger and power roiling so close beneath his skin, Gaius says nothing. His slumped shoulders relay the things they both know the old man will never admit to.
“Not everything. I suspected, well I suspected many things, to be honest, but neither Hunith nor Balinor ever said anything. Besides,” Gaius looks so terribly tired. Merlin thinks that he is too young to recognize the feeling in the heaviness of his own limbs. “I don’t think your father would have wanted to be known like that. His legacy was that of dragon lord, not prince.” Except that isn’t true, apparently, and Merlin is the living breathing proof of that. “Now come. Please Merlin. You need to rest. Tomorrow will be…long.” Gaius manages to guide him away from the wall and down the corridor with little effort.
Merlin is still numb when they finally make it back to Gaius’ quarters. Still separated from his body, watching his skin bleed from the sharp pain of newly opened wounds in the disassociated way that makes everything fuzzy and not quite real. Not yet. The real pain is still yet to come. The growing pains as nerves reconnect and force skin back together in mocking simile to what was once there.
In the end, he’s not sure if he’s grateful for the sleeping drought that Gaius finally presses to his lips.
He dreams of dragons and destiny.
~~~
The room all but erupts in surprise, and Arthur watches his father warily as he pushes to his feet in a sway of drunken fury. Uther’s face is deep red, though his concentration seems to be more focused on the other king than on Merlin, who is quickly shepherded, stumbling, from the room by a clearly shaken Gaius.
Everything has fallen into a controlled blaze of yelling turmoil that has Uther red in the face and King Dalined coldly pushing his consort’s fingers away from him. Arthur thinks he understands the king’s irritation, and his own skin itches in sympathy even as his fingers curl into fists that scratch bloody crescents into his palm. The yelling in the large, echoing room is loud, but has no substance. Arthur might have flinched at Uther’s crazed look, had he not been in his own kind of shock. He understands though that his father’s yelling is little more than a defense mechanism, and for now Arthur is only grateful that he has not yet made any serious threats. He's grateful also for the calming presence of the knights, who have begun marshaling quickly people out of the hall.
He knows that Uther is beyond rational thought now, and he sighs heavily to himself as he takes hold of his father’s shoulders. Arthur forces himself to stand firm and solid against the fight in his father's body, though Uther seems to be too drunk to sustain the effort for long. As soon as Dalined is out of his eyesight, he goes limp and drunkenly pliant. Arthur catches Leon’s eye, lets his father’s manservant step close as well, now that the threat of bodily harm seems to have passed, and gratefully releases him to their care.
And then it is relatively easy to slip unnoticed from the hall himself, content that his father will be taken care of, and he moves swiftly, for fear of shaking if he slows, down the corridor toward his chambers. The fire has long since died down when he arrives and he thinks he should… he shakes his head. He cannot call Merlin to light it, and he wonders if it’s strange to feel this betrayal worse than any.
His strangely enigmatic manservant, with his bright smiles and hidden wisdom, who somehow manages to make less sense, despite this new piece of the puzzle Arthur can add to the picture he's constructing in his mind. He thinks it all must make some sense. Surely. It certainly explains…he shakes his head to rid it of the image of pained tears hidden behind a clenched fist.
Balinor was Merlin’s father.
The words roll through his mind over and over again, leaving him in turns hot and cold. Balinor was Merlin’s father. What does that make Merlin? He can't bring himself to examine the sneaking suspicion pulling at his mind. Not yet. He’s not ready for the lies that come with that answer. The lies Merlin has told him, will tell him. The lies he will tell himself.
For a moment, the image of Morgana, straight backed and smug as a crown is set upon her head, flashes through his brain, leaving him breathless with a hurt he doesn’t dare dwell upon.
Merlin is not Morgana. He’s not.
He shifts restlessly around the room, thinks about calling another servant and ignores the idea almost immediately. He’s fairly certain he might do something he regrets, because the servant who slips through the door won't be Merlin. Besides, the room's chill helps to ease the sharp ache writhing beneath his skin, numbs the pain and the fear of what is yet to come, though it simultaneously makes him anxiously restless and angry. He snags a goblet off the table and throws it sharply at the wall, the harsh metallic clang not quite the clash of swords, but momentarily as satisfying.
Dalined must have some purpose yet. He's left something unsaid, and Arthur can’t decide if the itch in his mind is desperation to know, or conviction that he doesn’t want to. And maybe, just maybe, Arthur admits, an ache of loss is mixed into it all. The loss of a servant is not something new, but the loss of a friend hurts. He has had so few of them in his life.
He sighs and shrugs the jacket from his shoulder, tosses it rebelliously to the floor, and imagines a world where Merlin might actually be there to clear it away, his snide remarks blanketing unwavering loyalty and trust Arthur's not often sure he deserves.
No one’s ever made him question what he deserves before. The world has always been his by right. Only Merlin ever made him feel the need to work for his privilege. He wonders what that means.
In the end, he does call a servant, a young boy all polite smiles, acquiescent bows and unnervingly sincere "sires." He eases the clothes from Arthur’s body more clinically than Merlin ever managed, but also, so much less, and he wonders at the contradiction as he is led to a bath that is unexpectedly colder than the baths that Merlin would draw for him.
~~~
Merlin wakes with a low groan, his fingers clenching instinctively at his thin scratchy blanket. He pulls it over his head to block out the stream of light that always starts its morning journey across his eyes, no matter how he positions the bed. His head aches and the fuzziness in his mouth tells him he has either imbibed too much alcohol or one of Gaius’ potions.
It takes him an embarrassingly long moment to remember which.
The flash of memories makes him wince. They curl into his gut and settle heavily with expectation. He doesn’t know what is going to happen today, but the sinking feeling that something, his life, his life in Camelot, is forever changed, hangs heavy in the air and in his restless joints. In some ways, the deep sleep has helped to ease some of the tension from his body. The truths he has learned have settled deep into his bones, no less painful, but at least more recognizably his.
He finally manages to force himself up, the blankets shifting and pooling at his waist, bright in the pale early light of a new morning. It might as well be a new world. One where he goes to bed a servant and wakes up…
He throws his legs over the side of the bed, arches his spine, rolls his shoulders, and wonders if he is still expected to attend to Arthur. He knows the answer, though, and rolls the ‘no’ through his head instead of letting his mind dwell on the name that has always ever been synonymous with ‘destiny’. A wash of sadness crashes over him for a moment as he recognizes some kind of ending here, and he sighs as he cautiously slips out of his room. Bolstered by muscle memory, and the confidence that it instills, he is pulled up short in surprise, then, by the presence of two knights in the black and blue livery of Dalined's guard when he slips quietly into the main chambers.
“Highness” one of them greets him, and Merlin has to quell the urge to turn and look for Arthur. Only, they’re speaking to him, and he can’t help but feel terribly confused and out of his depth when faced with the expectant looks cast his way.
“Um” he replies weakly, suddenly at a loss.
“If you’ll follow us,” the same man continues smoothly, and before Merlin has a chance to make even more of a fool of himself, he finds himself following the two knights down the long hallways and into the guest wing of the castle, bypassing the room that belongs to King Dalined by one. The man who has yet to speak quickly pushes open the door to a surprising bustle of activity, and Merlin shifts into the room uncomfortable, confused, and overwhelmed.
King Dalined sits comfortably at the small table in the middle of the room, expertly slipping a sharp knife into the smooth, red flesh of an apple. When he sees Merlin, he motions him forward with a hand dripping sweet juice.
“Merlin,” he drawls, continuing to motion him forward until Merlin stands an arm's breadth away from him. The king’s eyes slowly travel up and down his body. “You…” Dalined pauses and then sighs, “you look like my mother” he finally whispers, reaching out to trace over Merlin’s cheek, and Merlin is momentarily startled by the sudden shock of touch and the deeply personal revelation. “You have her eyes and her build and her complexion,” Dalined continues softly. “I knew you the moment I saw you.”
Merlin nods slowly, his own eyes tracking over the king’s form, cataloguing the hard jaw, dark hair now streaked heavily with gray and ragged build so like a man he had only met briefly and tragically. “You look like…,” he can’t bring himself to say ‘my father’. The words are too painful though Dalined seems to understand, for he nods before motioning Merlin to sit in the chair across from him.
Neither says anything for a long time, and Merlin can’t quite shake the feeling that there is some test here, though he can’t convince himself he cares to pass. He wants to ask what this man, this stranger, wants from him. He senses that something more is at play, a feeling that has served him well in the past. Arthur isn’t the only one with good instincts and… A sudden thought whips sharply through him, and his eyes widen as an implication he hadn’t thought of before occurs to him like a smack to the face.
“I won’t leave Arthur” he says sharply, breaking the silence that has reigned between them. Dalined looks faintly surprised at first, though the look quickly turns into twinkling amusement that leaves Merlin feeling like he's missed the punch line of one of Gwaine’s jokes.
“We shall see,” Dalined finally says. “Who knows what the future shall bring.” Merlin wants to tell him that he knows, he has a destiny, but Dalined continues, “For now it will not do for my heir to be,” he stops and he shifts his eyes over Merlin in a much more superficial way, “dressed like a servant”.
“What’s wrong with my clothes?" Merlin says in surprised offense, though the word ‘heir’ sits sticky in his brain.
Which is how Merlin finds himself at the mercy of half-a-dozen servants, dripping wet and blushing as he is scrubbed and prodded and poked and brushed. Sweet smelling soaps are massaged firmly into his skin, his hair is trimmed and brushed, and thin splinters of wood are used to clean the grime from under his fingernails. He feels eternally grateful that Dalined hasn’t seen fit to oversee the entire damnable process himself.
How did Arthur stand this, this deeply personal invasion of his body? But then again, Merlin knows that Arthur has been through this process since he was a child. And it’s all he can do to stop the upwelling of panic that crashes through him once again. He’s not a prince. He doesn’t have the first clue how to be one, and even a lifetime as Arthur’s servant, at Arthur’s side, wouldn’t be enough to teach him.
His thoughts flash sharply back to only a few short months ago, to the image of a round table, and Arthur standing gilded in the pale light filtering through the dust-stained windows, achingly lovely and comfortable and regal in a way that Uther would never understand. And Merlin can’t be that. Can’t stand and inspire and love in equal measure. His wisdom and his power, his love, it’s too selfish. He is for Arthur.
He’s finally jolted sharply back into the moment when one of the servants gently takes hold of his arm and tugs him to stand in front of a gilt mirror standing imposingly against the far wall. He doesn’t recognize the tall pale stranger staring back at him from the shiny surface, outwardly calm, despite the roiling emotions beneath his skin that leaves him feeling short of breath.
His skin gleams pale in the warm morning sunshine, a study in shadow and light made all the more stark by the rich blue silk of his tunic and soft black of the fitted leather. His hands flutter nervously at the seam of his doublet, then up to the neatly trimmed edge of his hair. Curious and just a little lost in his own skin, he forces himself to turn away. He will have to reconcile himself with the strange prince in the mirror eventually; though he has a suspicion the process will be a slow one.
The servants clear out quickly after, and in near silence, and as the door clicks shut behind them it doesn’t sound so different than the clang of a dungeon door.
He’s not sure how long he sits there, lost in thought. Still he looks up in surprise when the door clicks open once more. He doesn’t even try to suppress the relieved half-quirk of his lips as a familiar figure steps into the room.
“Gwen!” he calls out in relief, jumping up and moving to embrace her, before stopping short at her slightly stunned look. He freezes a few feet away from her, rocks back on his heels and wraps his arms self-consciously around his middle.
“Merlin, you…” she trails off, “gods, look at you” she softens and takes the last step forward to pull him into a warm embrace that Merlin can only melt gratefully into.
“I can’t do this Gwen,” he whispers when he pulls reluctantly back from her warm arms.
“You can! I know you can, Merlin. You’re not like the rest of us. You never have been. This is your chance to do something. Be something more than just a servant. Besides,” Gwen smiles gently as she pulls back another arm’s length away from him. “You’ve got me.”
He looks up at her gratefully then, offers a small smile that she echoes, though her eyes are guarded. He can see the war in her face between her beautiful and natural compassion, and a hurt of her own.
He sees when her compassion wins, though, and he offers a soft “Thank you Gwen.” His reply heartfelt, and he feels something catch in his chest and low in his throat as looks at her and takes stock of her unwavering loyalty and love, despite everything.
“It won’t be all bad Merlin,” she says quietly, before moving to pull another chair up to his side where she sits unobtrusively and lets him have a moment. He is unutterably grateful, although he is determined to not let such shows of emotion become a habit. He has stared down some of the world’s most powerful sorcerers and dangerous beasts and barely blinked. This is nothing compared to that and he forces himself to calm down. To stop and center himself so he can begin to figure out how to actually deal with everything. He has the feeling that no one will give him the time to try to figure this out the way he desperately wants to, and the sooner he can get himself under control, the better this will turn out for him. He hopes.
Gwen seems to realize that he’s calmed down again, and she tentatively offers a soft “Better?” with a half-smile, which quickly bursts forth in full force when he nods his head slowly.
“Yeah. I think so, yeah. Thanks.”
She nods and gently touches his arm again, drawing his attention. Her eyes are wide and familiar. He feels inexplicably calmer for her gentle company. The openness in her expression that is warm and familiar and makes his gut clench at the knowledge that he has such a truly good friend in her.
For a moment, one brief second that stretches in his mind like molasses, he thinks he might tell her about his magic as well. He clamps his mouth shut though, even as he leans into her support.
Too many secrets have been let lose in too short a time.
~~~
“So…” he trails off, hours later, as Gaius sits solemnly across from him at the table in his room “I don’t know what I’m actually supposed to do,” he sighs, “I’m not Arthur. I don’t know how to be…I’m not a prince, Gaius, no matter who my father was.” He can feel himself getting worked up and he stops for a long moment to take a deep breath. He has been told very little yet of what his fate is to be, and he has been chewing compulsively at his fingernails for hours now, trying to puzzle out the increasingly unlikely scenarios playing through in his mind.
Gaius sighs at him and raises a high eyebrow. There’s something suspiciously like amusement in the turn of his mouth, though his eyes remain hard and serious. He is hesitating, Merlin knows.
Finally, he says, “If you were a… well if you were a woman.”
Merlin makes a half-choked sound.
“Even as you are clearly not a woman, it is likely that Dalined will propose marriage. While such relations are rarely condoned or openly practiced amongst the common people,” Gaius pauses for a moment. “It is not unheard of for two men of noble heritage to marry, if there is something to be gained from it.”
Gaius chuckles weakly, though it's not humorous in the least. Merlin can do nothing but frown. He doesn’t understand.
“Marriage?” he asks carefully, confused. Gaius sits back in his seat and doesn’t answer. It takes Merlin a long moment to finally wrap his mind around what he is being told. Then it takes another moment, still, before his voice is stable enough to actually speak.
“Marriage between me…and Arthur?” Gaius merely nods at slowly at him and winces in sympathy. “You think that’s what will happen?”
“It is likely. King Dalined can’t very well just hand you a kingdom. You don’t know the first thing about running a country, nor do you seem overly interested in the politics and intrigues of court. And Dalined hates Uther, so he’s not very likely to make an alliance with him, despite the advantages of allying with Camelot itself. Arthur, however, is young and quite different from his father. Through Arthur, Symria gets both the advantage of being allied with Camelot, but also the added bonus of gaining a young and well-respected future leader. Camelot gets the benefit of protection and friendship with such a powerful nation.
“So basically, you’re saying he’s going to give Arthur an entire kingdom through me, and bypass Uther all together?”
Gaius nods, “Exactly. And everyone wins, more or less.”
“Except for me,” Merlin retorts sourly, “I’m the one who gets stuck marrying the prat! Are you sure?”
The old physician just shrugs. Nothing is certain at this point, and they are just lucky Uther’s suspicions have yet to actively turn to Merlin.
Finally Gaius speaks again, slowly, “It’s a good political match, if Uther and Dalined can actually agree on anything.”
“So I won’t actually have to, you know, rule a kingdom then?” Merlin asks, frowning when Gaius shakes his head ruefully at him and makes a half-sigh, half-laugh that echoes in Merlin’s ears for a moment. Merlin knows he is exasperating the old man, but talking through his possible future is helping to ease some of his concerns, even as a whole new batch of fears and insecurities begin to war in his head.
“Well I didn’t say that, exactly. I’m sure they’ll help you, Dalined and Arthur, show you what to do and how to act. Despite all appearances, you are smart. You’ll be fine. The truth is, once Arthur becomes king of Camelot, he’ll probably merge the two kingdoms formally together under one banner. But you’ll still have to stand at his side.”
“I swear to god,” Merlin mutters, long suffering, and because there’s nothing else he can think to say, he adds, “If he calls me his queen, I will punch him in the face…or, or, something!” They both know, of course, that Merlin couldn’t land a blow to Arthur even if he tried. Because he has, tried that is, and failed rather miserably every time. Suddenly Dalined’s earlier amusement makes a lot of unfortunate sense.
Gaius pats him gently and encouragingly on the arm, and Merlin can’t help the small resigned, if bashful, smile he sends him in return. Nor can he help the sudden surge of warmth and affection for the old man. He has been a good friend and mentor, and despite everything that’s happened, everything that will happen in the future, he feels better knowing that Gaius will be at his side to help him along the way.
Part 2 or Master Post