Polarity: Part 2

[castmeaway]

Part 2:

Morgana moves slowly through the low, dusk light that filters through one of the only intact windows in this place she now calls home. The room has a blue tinge as well, cast from the witch light that hovers like a ghostly chandelier over the bier in the center of the room, guarded by chalk and power and all the force of will that a sister’s love and hate can muster.

She walks slowly to it, the torn edges of her skirt floating around her ankles as if blown by a wind no reason could explain, and for a moment, had anyone been there to see, Morgana would have been fierce and hard as stone, and not the lovely, treacherous, innocent that she might seem to any who did not know her.

“My sister,” she whispers, soft and sibilant, her long fingers darting out to caress a lock of blond hair splayed out upon a stone pillow. The whisper of her words hiss through the room long after she stops speaking, turn into a soft hum as Morgana follows the strand of hair back to its source, then down the sharp contours of a face slack in a deathly sleep. “I will bring you back to me,” she whispers as the sharp blade of her athame flashes stark in contrast to the soft dreamlike quality of the room.

She closes her fist tightly around her prize, the lock of hair she had traced only moments ago a living line of power back to the heart, if no longer to the body, of her beloved sister. “They will pay” she confides to the silence, as she turns abruptly and makes her way to the small alter she has set up on the far side of the room. Her fingers trace lovingly over the worn leather of the book her sister had given to her when Morgana had first woken in this same room over a year ago, then move to hover over the sharp heat of a candle that burns a line of feeling back into her skin, and then on to the bowl of dark liquid that rests in the center. She begins to chant, a low rise and fall of sound that grates at the very earth, makes the land tremble beneath her feet.

“If you do as I say” she says calmly, sweetly, to the large, rough man standing before her, “You will be rewarded beyond your wildest imagination.” The man grins greedily at her, the large paws of his hands reaching out to take the object she hands him.

“It shall be done, my lady. You need not worry.” And she nods, and her eyes flash gold to bind his conviction to her will, just to be sure.

She has learned much in a year, and more since she had no choice. And she will not, cannot, tolerate failure.

~~~

Uther groans in his sleep, rolls, trapped in the mass of heavy covers.

‘Magic’ whispers through the room, through his head, wraps around his heart and tugs on all the most painful spaces inside of him. Terrible and inflaming, it touches all the places withered from its lack.

Merlin stands smiling beside a man, tall, dark and rugged.

The king’s quarters are dark and cool, and the midnight moon shows slivered through the high windows along the far wall. The thick brocade fabric of the drapes rustles as though a slight, impossible, breeze disturbs them.

Merlin’s eyes flash golden, even as a man, Balinor, turns and smiles, his own eyes flashing in return.

A low whine sounds through the room. Uther. His sleep is becoming more and more restless, and when he sits up with a start, eyes wide and sightless, there is no one to hear the name that passes across his lips.

“Morgana.”

Her name slips like sand through his fingers, a memory that blows away from his consciousness like a wisp of smoke in the wind. His only thoughts are fixated on the dream images, and a treachery he knows, to the very heart of him, to be true.

Merlin, eyes flashing treasonously gold.

~~~

Morgana stumbles back from the cold stone altar and the rough wooden bowl where Uther's image is fading from its surface with a dark ripple of magic that twists cold and painful around her heart.

She smiles.

~~~

Merlin sighs and shifts, surprisingly uncomfortable although this is surely the softest and most comfortable bed he’s ever had the privilege of sleeping on, except of course the occasional inadvisable nap snatched on Arthur’s bed, which he will never admit to. Maybe he’s just not used to the luxury of soft blankets and a down mattress that cushions his back, soft as a cloud. Also the room is too warm compared to the chill he’s used to up in Gaius’ tower, and for all the extra space, he feels confined and stifled here.

With a groan, he finally gives up and sits, back resting against the intricate headboard. He absently considers making his way back to his own room, and Gaius, and a strong sleeping draught. Even as he thinks it, though, he knows he won’t do it. He’s too restless to sleep, but neither does he have the energy for a midnight stroll through the castle halls. Prince or not, it wouldn’t do to be caught out after curfew, assuming he could sneak past the guards he’s sure are standing watch outside the elegant double doors to this room.

It doesn’t help that he is actually rather tired, and if anything, it proves a matter of small frustration. Gaius had not lied when he said, what feels like a small eternity ago, that the day would be long. It had been. And uncomfortably, and painful and exhausting. Mostly, though, he figures that his first day as a prince had felt akin to acting in a play- perhaps a tragedy, a morbid part of him suggests- when he didn’t know the lines. With other actors who kept secrets and lies like trophies, and an ending that promised bloodshed, but failed to specify whose.

He shivers to remember the cool look Arthur had given him when Merlin finally entered the council room, filled, to a seat, with the assemblies of both kings. And Arthur, a silent brooding, and ever-commanding presence. Arthur had looked at him as if they were strangers who had not joked and laughed and fought together for nearly five years. And it had hurt, though he understood, at least a little, recalling the moment when he had stood in front of a mirror and looked upon someone he didn’t know, tall and composed, dressed in finery, and refined and aloof as any prince should be, and yet still a stranger.

Of course, Merlin had attended councils before. Many times in fact, only he had always been a servant, standing ready to aid Arthur however he could, be it to fetch some document from his room, or to fill his goblet with cool water. Or, more often, to entertain him in an increasingly subtle language all their own. The rise of an eyebrow, the quirk of a mouth or shift of a hand all lent itself to a code born of long practice and intimate knowledge. No one could read Arthur like he could. No one else could understand the way a jaunty smile all but commanded Merlin to find some excuse to get him out of there, or the way the flick of a writs just so was a subtle mockery of one of the councilors who had a penchant for the overly dramatic.

Except, that apparently wasn’t true. For the first time, he found himself unable to reach Arthur. His cool mask was so impenetrable, Merlin might as well have been attempting to know the thoughts of stone. If Arthur had understood the increasingly entreating questions in the downturn of Merlin’s mouth, the motion of his fingers, the begging of his eyes that asked “Are we all right?”, he did not acknowledge it. Indeed, Arthur had barely looked at him, though Merlin hadn’t quite missed the small frown of resignation when the announcement of their marriage had been officially put to the court. It was no surprise that Arthur knew, or had guessed, and he only ached for the fact that the only sign of any emotion at all had been in response to this.

He'd replied, “I will do what I must for the good Camelot”, a calm, emotionless statement of fact that seemed to please Uther, who had, nonetheless, gone on to get Arthur's assurance that he would not leave another bride- and Merlin had bristled silently - at the altar. Camelot could not afford a repeat of the incident with Elena. Dalined was no longtime friend hoping to cast off an otherwise unmarriageable daughter, and this treaty could well mean the difference between life and death for the citizens of Camelot. That Arthur would do his duty was a fact that only Uther had seemed to question.

After that, the meeting had been boring, though, and Merlin had found himself drooping in his seat, occasionally straightening when he caught a glare from Gaius or Dalined, before forgetting his posture again within minutes. He’d need to work on that, he knew, or at least figure out how Arthur managed the graceful sprawl that left him somehow both straight backed and gracefully slumped. It was an art, certainly.

Mostly the kings and their councils had simply argued. About everything really, and well into the evening when, as far as Merlin had been able to tell, there had been a silent, mutual agreement to retire, with nothing more actually decided than the actual marriage.

“They’re mostly just arguing for the sake of arguing,” Gaius had told him later. “Dalined has Uther backed into this whether he likes it or not. He holds all the power. Uther is just too stubborn and angry to admit it right away, and Dalined hates Uther too much to make the whole thing easy or pleasant.”

It made sense of course. “Thank you for helping me.” Merlin had told him, gratefully.

“You might not think it now Merlin, but you’re a good match for him. You always have been. You make him a better person, and he’s going to need that your faith in him more than he realizes, and sooner than he wants.”

Now, hours later, Merlin can’t help but puzzle on the words, even if he is silently pleased by them. Sometimes it’s easy to forget the Arthur Merlin had met on his first fateful day in Camelot. The arrogant prince who took his entire world, his place in it, and everyone around him for granted. Arthur has grown up so much since then, grown into a man who Merlin knows in his very heart will be the greatest king the world has ever known. He likes to think he has had something to do with the man he has seen Arthur slowly becoming. The man who inspires such courage and chivalry from his people. He wants desperately to believe that maybe he’s fulfilled the dragon’s prophecy, at least in part, and helped to shape Arthur into that man. Only, with Arthur unable to even look at him…it shakes him, makes him doubt Gaius’ easy words to him. Arthur’s indifferent dismissal worries him, but it confuses him even more. There’s something broken between them now, a gulf of secrets and uncertainty that Merlin isn’t sure he knows how to go about spanning. And worse, his own guilt makes it impossible for him to see anything but the worst-case explanation for Arthur’s action.

So when the doors to his chambers slam open, to the inpouring of a dozen knights in Camelot livery, Merlin can only ask himself the question that has been at the center of his thoughts. Has Arthur guessed at the heart of his worries, and the true reason for his restlessness?

Has Arthur guessed about his magic?

~~~

Arthur strolls purposefully toward the council chamber, limbs aching from his vigorous morning training. He welcomes the tiredness in his body and the exhausted throb of his head for the small oblivion they bring, the excuse for him not to think about Merlin with his damnable secrets and his heart-wrenching smiles. Arthur is not stupid by any means, and the niggling at the back of his mind that he has been so desperately and dutifully ignoring is driving him mad. It had kept him from sleeping the night before, left him tossing in his bed where he was faced with an entirely different set of issues, cravings he would never admit to. His desires, outside those to do his duty for Camelot, have never been important, especially when they come to Merlin. He is a prince and self-denial is only another form of discipline as far as he is concerned. Which has never been a problem before, except that he has also never had as much reason to fixate on Merlin before either. Merlin is no longer his servant, but his equal now. It had led to a night of vacillating sharply between anger at the whole situation, concern born of his most secret desires, and a doubt that left him feeling unexplainably guilty.

Finally, annoyed and tired from a sleepless night of worrying, he had gotten up with the dawn, donned his armor, and run himself ragged with drills. Every stretch of muscle and flex of a blade drew him closer and closer to that place, silent and sharp, where he merely existed and his weapon was but an extension of his arm. It was a place for feeling and not thinking, and it had settled him, at least for a time, and left him warily ready for the council his father had called him to attend, no doubt to discuss the repercussions of Dalined’s revelations the night before.

He finally reaches his destination and pauses in front of the carved and gilt door leading to the council chambers. He knows his father and King Dalined wait for him, and he can’t help but wonder if Merlin will be there as well. Will he look different? Be different? Arthur shakes his head in irritation and allows one of the knights to push the door open. He sighs in relief when he sees only the two kings and their councils waiting for him.

“Ah, Arthur” Uther says with such false cheer that Arthur can’t help but shift uncomfortably in the wake of his father’s gaze.

“Father,” he responds with a small bow echoed briefly to the rest of the room, though he can’t bring himself to look Dalined in the eyes, so like Merlin’s. Formality aside, he makes his way to the empty chair set aside for him on his father’s right, and mentally prepares himself for the game of politics that awaits them.

Only, apparently they aren’t ready to begin quite yet, and Arthur looks up sharply when the council chamber doors once again silently open and another figure enters hesitatingly, lovely cast against the brighter hallway beyond.

Merlin.

Arthur forces himself to look away. He has long since perfected a mask of indifference in the face of his father’s disappointment and the court’s insistences, and he knows that if he looks at Merlin now, he’ll be lost. He needs a moment to get his bearing, to force his brain into an objective state so that he can handle the situation that every instinct is telling him is about to get ugly.

Finally, feeling at least a little more settled, his defenses tightly in place, he allows himself to take stock of the room. Merlin is sitting, clearly uncomfortable in the stiff high back chairs, directly across from him. He’s lovely. Surprisingly so in well-fitted finery worthy of a prince. The deep blue of his tunic is dark against his fair skin, and the leather jacket is fitted in a way that makes Arthur blink in surprise at his slenderness. It is strange to see him like this, in a way he had only ever looked at nobility before, for all that he has spent nearly every waking moment for five years with Merlin, and in that instant Arthur is nearly ready to forgive him anything, even hiding who he was, who Balinor was. He can’t help a small upwelling of guilt at that, but only for a moment. He is forced sharply back into his anger as he allows himself to remember his father and the broken look that still lingers too clearly in his eyes.

Arthur knows, better than most, the cost of keeping secrets. And he’s had enough of lies. Enough of people playing him, and fooling him into caring. That this is Merlin, so often at his side as the voice of reason and conscience, is only making things worse. Merlin who cries over unicorns, and is not a half-bad swordsman (to which Arthur will never ever admit), who sometimes vanishes into thin air, and sometimes, just sometimes, happens to be a bit…wise. Merlin, whom he has trusted with the most intimate parts of his life, but who is also no longer under his authority, which means he's nearly an enemy, though one who knows him better than any enemy should. That Arthur apparently knows so little about Merlin in return only adds insult to injury.

To treat his once friend as anything less would be dangerous and Arthur is driven by his duty to Camelot too much to forget that, or forgive it, easily.

He’s jerked abruptly from his brooding when a word draws his mind back into the conversation floating around him.

“…Marriage…”

Arthur sits up straight and frowns as he picks up the full thread of the conversations, comprehends what this foreign king is proposing. It takes every ounce of his strength not to flinch, not to show any more emotion than what he is sure has already slipped through the high wall of his defenses

His marriage, he realizes. His marriage to, gods, to Merlin. He had suspected. Of course he had. It was certainly not a novel suggestion, given the current political climate. Still the idea is laughable and horrible, and a secret kind of wonderful that makes him angry for thinking it.

“And what say you, Arthur?” his father finally asks him, gaze sharp. There is no question what Arthur’s answer is to be. This alliance is not one they can afford to lose. And really, he can see Dalined’s wisdom in proposing it. The only thing more laughable than getting married to Merlin, of all people, is the thought of Merlin running a kingdom, when he can barely manage the running of Arthur’s household.

“I will do what I must for the good of Camelot,” Arthur says with soft conviction, ignoring Merlin’s steady, unsurprised, gaze.

Uther nods slowly, a resigned grimace pulling at his mouth.

“And I can trust you not to leave another bride at the altar, then?”

This time, Arthur does flinch in shocked hurt. This situation is so different from his engagement to Elena. He is so different now. He hadn’t known the shock of betrayal then. Hadn’t yet grasped how fragile Camelot truly was. But he knows now, knows down to his very marrow, and that his father would question his commitment to his duty…

He has long known shame at his father’s hand. Long felt the wave of uncertainty and the pull of regret that he never seems able to make his father proud. He had thought, finally, that…

He shakes his head slightly to clear it. It doesn’t matter. He will do what he must. For all that neither of them is pleased with the situation; they both know how necessary this alliance is for Camelot's future safety. Arthur’s marriage here is but the means to an end. Dalined is looking for a future king of his nation, and that king is not to be Merlin.

“I will do your will, father.” And he will. Because Camelot will be untouchable with this alliance. And Dalined is a smart man. Arthur understands that he is hesitant to hand his kingdom over to someone who has never been more than a servant.

He feels the weight of another kingdom settle onto his shoulders, not that anyone else would notice for all that he manages somehow to sit up straighter. And maybe he hates Merlin a bit, for the extra burden, as well.

~~~

Merlin doesn’t struggle when the knights take hold of him, pull him out of bed and down the long dark corridor, sinister in midnight’s stranglehold, toward the dungeons. He doesn’t say anything, but lets his body go limp in the hold of a knight he recognizes as more Uther’s man than Arthur’s. He doesn’t see any of Arthur’s round table knights at all.

He stumbles a bit when he’s propelled into the straw-lined cell alone, and flinches when cold manacles are clasped around his wrists. He closes his eyes when the cell door clangs shut and the lock clicks into place.

The first rays of daylight have slid through the small slit of a window, set high in the wall, before he hears anything more than the subtle shuffling of the knights standing vigil.

It takes him a moment to process that he’s hearing yelling.

It's still too far away to understand any of the actual words, but close enough to hear the anger and the frustration and the threat. Close enough to recognize Uther and Dalined as the driving voices.

“Touch him and it is an act of war!” Dalined yells, the first sentence that Merlin can make out in full. He flinches at the realization that he has become his own enemy, an enemy of his home, and for reasons more tangible and terrifying than the simple treason of sorcery.

“He is a sorcerer! A sorcerer who has lied and weaseled his way into my home. It cannot be borne. He will be put to death as decreed by the laws of Camelot.”

For all the yelling and the anger that wash over Merlin’s skin, even through the walls of his cell, it is Arthur he sees first. Arthur who pushes his way past the knights to stand, hard faced and clenched-jawed, in front of him.

“Is it true?” he asks through his teeth. “Is it true, Merlin? My father says that the son of a dragon lord must be a sorcerer. Considering your lineage…” he spits the words out like a curse. “Tell me it’s not true, Merlin.”

And just like that, all the lies and all the secrets come crashing down on him like a tidal wave and leave him breathless. Looking into Arthur’s eyes he can’t lie. Doesn’t want to. One way or another, their life together, the life he has come to cherish so much with his friend, is over and it is time to start fresh. To meet each other as equals.

Yes, it’s true.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything. He only looks at him through an impenetrable mask for an uncomfortable length of time, before he turns sharply and walks away, the click of his heels on the hard flagstone floor echoing long after he has gone.

Merlin can do nothing but close his eyes and slump down to the ground, the clinking of the chains binding his wrists the only sound when he swipes angrily at the tears that slip from his eyes.

“No man is worth your tears” he thinks bitterly.

~~~

Arthur doesn’t even make it all the way out of the dungeon before he has to stop and lean shakily against the wall.

He hates that he’s not surprised by Merlin’s admission. Hates the fact that he knew, somewhere deep inside of himself, that Merlin was different, if not entirely how. Like he knew about Morgana.

Too many things that never made sense suddenly do.

Gaius said once that love is blind, and Arthur never really understood what that meant until Morgana’s betrayal. He had known about her too, somewhere deep in his bones.

Only somehow Merlin is worse. Merlin, his friend who hasn’t just lied to him about a father, or a friend dying on a cold wood table, making claims not his to make. He has lied about something essential. Has played Arthur in ways that he can’t bring himself to imagine or understand.

Sorcery is evil. Yet he can’t bring himself to think that Merlin is evil, not quite. Not that it lessens the hurt, or the fear of what will happen with Symria now that its heir is chained beneath Camelot’s castle.

It’s an impossible situation in the worst way.

Finally his legs stabilize and he straightens, squares his shoulders, and makes his way to his father’s study. The beginnings of the castle’s early morning bustle follow him along the way, greeting him far too early for the second consecutive day.

When he enters his father’s chambers, the curtains are still drawn, the only light coming from the waning fire.

“Father,” he says softly, studying the pinched lines around the king’s brow, the hard line of his lips, and the ghostly pale cast to his skin. It’s hard for him to breath here.

“The sorcerer must die,” Uther says, never looking up.

Arthur knows this, knows that his father kills sorcerers. Knows Merlin is a sorcerer, and therefore must die. Only he can’t accept that, can’t bring himself to agree, even in the face of the blinding anger that simmers like a storm underneath his skin. Some part of him knows, even in his anger, that to hurt Merlin and snuff out the vibrant soul that is- was he reminds himself sharply- his manservant, would be to break something essential inside of himself as well. “And we are prepared to go to war with Symria then?” he counters. This can’t be personal, at least while he is talking to his father.

“Better to die with honor,” is the simple and swift reply “than to fall mercy to a sorcerer’s wiles. Who’s to say you have not already? You were close to the boy, were you not?” Uther does look up then, his eyes brimming with a manic light that makes Arthur fight against taking a step backward in surprise.

“You may go.”

The dismissal is blunt, and scrapes at his skin as he walks quietly away, the door locking sharply, like an accusation, behind him.

He doesn’t make it down the hallway before he all but runs into Leon.

“Sire!” the man says. “I heard about Merlin…” Leon trails off and shifts uncomfortably. “He won’t be executed, will he?”

Arthur has no answer, and can’t bring himself to think of one. He walks away with Leon trailing behind him silently, until they get to the training grounds where their brutal sparring leaves them both aching and panting. On a good day Arthur is only slightly better than Leon, but his anger and his frustration make him impulsive and reckless so that they are well matched today, drawing out the fight longer than either of them is used to. When Leon finally knocks Arthur’s feet from him, he stays down and closes his eyes.

“Sire…” Leon is still a bit breathless when he sits down next to Arthur’s prone form, “I don’t know if it would help…” He trails off for a long moment and Arthur doesn’t press. Doesn’t care to.

“There’s this man; I’ve seen him down in the lower town. He even tried to get an audience with the king a couple of weeks ago. He says he has a way to bind a sorcerer’s magic.” And with that, Leon gets up and walks away, absently tossing his sword to his waiting squire.

Arthur sits up and watches Leon walk away, lets the knight’s words roll around in his mind and create possibilities for only a moment, before he calls for another opponent.

“Tell me about it” he says, hours later, when he has had enough alcohol to dull the ache in his limbs. He drops a flagon of mead in front of the scruffy man smirking up at him. “This method you have for binding a sorcerer’s powers.”

When the man produces a box with a finely wrought silver collar nestled within, intricate and beautiful despite its purpose. Arthur can’t deny the impulse to reach out and finger the cool metal.

He pays the man handsomely.

He’s drunk, and he knows he’s drunk, but doesn’t care. The world is fuzzy around him, and his hands clench compulsively around the small, precious box that he holds. The box that will make everything right, and let him once again live in a world where Merlin is no longer his equal, damnit. A world that makes sense. The box, the shining silver collar within the box, will make things right.

He stumbles half against the wall toward the dungeons, his anger, simmering for hours, for days, propelling him forward more than anything else. Had he been sober he might have stopped at the soft voices drifting toward him. Might have had the presence of mind to spy and listen. As it is, he is shocked to find Lancelot and Gwaine sitting cross-legged across from Merlin, the bars of the cell dividing them as they speak. A tall Symrian knight with glassy black curls and a hard face is the only one standing; his companion has quickly hurried off and away at the sight of Arthur. Coward, he might have thought, scathingly, had he noticed or cared.

He doesn’t dare acknowledge his jealousy.

When he comes into view, Merlin jerks back, eyes wide, says “Arthur” softly in a way that has no meaning, is instead merely something to say. Lancelot and Gwaine clamber to their feet, standing not out of the way, but in front of Merlin. Between him and Merlin.

“Unlock the door,” he commands sharply, voice hard.

“My lord,” Lancelot tries, placating hand raised toward him, “My lord you are drunk. I will escort you…”

“Open. The. Door.” He slides a warning hand onto the hilt of his dagger. “I will not repeat myself again.”

If Lancelot and Gwaine hesitate to do as he asks, it is Merlin’s soft voice that finally has Gwaine, who is holding the keys, moving reluctantly to the door, which squeaks open too loudly. Merlin, who is standing forward to the extent that the manacles around his wrist allow, takes a step back as Arthur enters, then another. One back for every step that Arthur takes forward, until Arthur has him pressed to the wall .

“Arthur.” Merlin’s voice is intimate, dangerous in combination with the wide blow of his eyes and the way his teeth catch at his lower lip. Arthur has to catch himself from swaying closer and remember why he is here.

“Swear to me…” he whispers into the space between them, though the words trail off with his coherency. Gods, he can’t think like this, pressed so close to Merlin. Every part of his body wants closer. Wants…

“Anything. Arthur. I’ll do anything for you.”

“What is the meaning of this!” The loud and grating voice cuts them like a wound, breaking the fragile connection that was trying to rework itself between them, natural and comfortable and them.

Arthur jerks back in surprise, all hostility at the sight of King Dalined and the knight who had fled upon Arthur’s entrance. His anger crashes back upon him like a bucket of cold water and he begins pacing as if he is the one caged.

“If you have hurt him boy…”

“I have done no such thing. As you can see, Merlin is quite well. Aren’t you Merlin?” He doesn’t turn to see Merlin’s nod, nor does he acknowledge the soft spoken affirmative.

“Why are you here then, Pendragon? Hmm? Will you release him?”

Arthur ignores Dalined as well. They both recognize their stalemate. Camelot cannot really execute Merlin, for all that Uther wants to. Arthur knows with a certainty that Uther’s addled mind cannot fully grasp how desperately Camelot cannot afford to go to war right now. Dalined knows it though. But neither can Camelot let him free. He has no idea how powerful Merlin is, but even if he can only do the weakest of charms and nothing more, Merlin’s knowledge of Arthur, of Camelot and its army, makes him a dangerous liability armed against them. Not to mention the weakness Camelot would show to let a sorcerer simply walk free.

He knows, even half-inebriated, that the only thing left to them is to go through this situation, with his plan.

“King Dalined,” he says slowly, “I propose you and I put an end to the games and politics right now. I think the time for them has passed.” He squares his shoulders as he talks.

Dalined goes still, eying Arthur with a startled admiration. “Then tell me, young Pendragon, what solution do you propose? Hmm?”

“This,” Arthur answers quickly, holding up the small box, still clutched tight in his grasp. “The man that I received it from is in holding for his very life, for the certainty that this will work.”

Dalined frowns deeply at him before stalking toward Arthur and jerking the small box away, opening it forcefully to reveal the pale glint of a silver collar and small key nestled into the rich lining of the box. “And what is this then?” His hands glide over the polished metal for a moment before they pull away.

“It binds a sorcerer’s power,” Arthur answers. “I have been assured that it causes no lasting harm, but merely prevents a sorcerer from accessing his powers.” He ignores Merlin's flinch, and turns to Dalined, who looks deeply considering at the collar, which he has freed from its resting place within the box. “If Merlin agrees to wear it then I will go through with the marriage.”

“No. He will not!” Dalined replies quickly and firmly, even as Merlin speaks softly.

“I will do it.”

Arthur feels a surprising shiver of pleasure. This is right and his due. He turns again toward Merlin who looks small and fragile wrapped in manacles and the loose linen of his nightshirt, nothing more.

“You will wear it?” he asks softly, again moving too close, and he reaches out a hand to hover a hair's breadth from the hollow of Merlin’s throat.

“I will.” Merlin states, looking over Arthur's shoulder at Dalined, who has said nothing more in protest. Arthur nods, pleased, and steps back to pluck the collar neatly from Dalined’s fingers.

“And what will your father say?” Dalined finally questions.

“He can protest only as much as is a father’s due. If Merlin and I marry, then I will have sanctuary as nobility of your own kingdom and will be freed from his rule. But he cannot afford to disinherit me. Camelot will not tolerate it.”

No one speaks as he moves forward with single-minded intensity and snaps the collar firmly and finally around Merlin’s throat, though he startles back when Merlin gives a hollow cry and arches his head back against the wall. It takes all his willpower, all his pent up anger and feelings of betrayal, to overcome the desire to step forward and comfort the man he once thought was his closest friend.

Not that it matters. Lance and Gwaine rush around him and pull Merlin to the floor in their embrace, speaking softly to him, even as they turn sharp glares to Arthur.

“Is he okay?” the question sounds weak and cold even to him, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“I’m okay,” Merlin says weakly. “It’s stopped hurting. It just…” Merlin trails off and lets Gwaine and Lancelot comfort him. If he looks up at Arthur, looks to him for comfort, Arthur himself doesn’t know it. He doesn’t look back as he staggers, more exhausted than drunk now, back to his own chambers for well-deserved sleep. The world is still dizzyingly off-kilter, a disappointment he doesn’t know how to deal with.

~~~

“Is it true?”

Merlin frowns and sighs at the repetition of Arthur’s earlier question.

“Yes,” he replies softly, absently twirling a piece of straw between his fingers. He doesn’t dare look into his uncle’s eyes.

“Hmm…” Dalined trails off. “Are you powerful then?”

Merlin does look up at that, in surprise, and quirks a half-smile at the other man. He’s pleased at the question, and his ability to answer it. He shoots a small smile at Lancelot through the bars of the cell as he answers.

“Yes.”

“I did wonder. I always figured you for a dragon lord, but I wasn’t sure about you being an actual sorcerer. But then, all things considered, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. My mother was a very powerful woman, you know. Your grandmother.” Dalined’s voice has gone soft and a bit wistful as he looks down at Merlin. "And do you have any training? I don’t suppose, living in Camelot, that you do.”

“I have a bit…I uh…Gaius gave me a book?”

Dalined laughs. “The court physician eh? Don’t worry, I won’t tell Uther, although it’s not a big leap is it? I will do what I can to offer him protection if it comes to that.”

“Thank you.” And Merlin shifts lower, hunches his shoulders a bit, because he’s tired and his heart hurts, and he just wants to be alone with the ache of everything. He always suspected that Arthur would hate him after he found out, he just wasn’t prepared for the reality of it.

Dalined seems to recognize the gesture for what it is. “I will get you out of here,” he offers gently, before turning and quickly walking away, nodding at the small contingent of knights, two each from Camelot and Symria.

When the king finally walks away, Merlin takes the opportunity to curl up on the floor, the hard stone and straw strangely more comforting than the soft down of his mattress up in the guest wing of the castle. He sleeps deeply, though not for terribly long, he’s sure, before a gentle tap to his shoulders has him blinking his eyes open at the sight of Gwen, Lancelot standing tall behind her.

“Merlin?” she questions gently, kneeling to stroke a soothing hand down his cheek. “Come on, get up. I’ve some food for you.” He sighs and buries his face into his arm for a moment, and he contemplates turning over and ignoring her, even as he recognizes the futility of the gesture.

“Alright, alright,” he half-groans as he sits, eyeing the surprisingly decent fair laid out on her tiny tray. “S’ for me?” he asks around a greedy mouthful. Gwen laughs hollowly at him, though she gently pats his shoulder.

“So it’s true then?” she asks as he continues to eat. “That you’re a sorcerer?” There’s a bite to her voice, and her eyes are cool as she looks down at him, but her hand on his shoulder is gentle.

He’s saved from answering when Lancelot does so for him. "Yes.”

Merlin offers a grateful nod, though Gwen looks confused.

“You knew?” she asks Lancelot in surprise, and he blushes faintly and nods.

“Yes, from when I was here the first time. Merlin was the one who really defeated the Griffin. It was why I had to go then, why I couldn’t take credit for something that I didn’t really do, at least not by myself.”

Gwen looks thoughtful at this, but nods slowly and acceptingly, before looking to Gwaine, sitting quietly close by, curiously.

“Did you know as well?”

But Gwaine merely flashes her a raunchy smile and shakes his head. “Nah. Not that it matters” he says, before bursting out in a sudden laugh. “Wolves, bears and boars, Merlin?”

Merlin huffs a small laugh at this, and quirks him an indignant smile that feels surprisingly good. Talking to his friends feels good, and helps to ease some of his ache, though he frowns a bit over at Gwen. He knows she is angry at him. For continuing to keep things from her. Had her closeness to Lancelot not been intimately telling, he might also have suspected she was angry about his sudden engagement to Arthur as well. He had begun to suspect, however, that any feelings she might have had for the prince had faded in the face of a man in a position capable of openly wooing her the way she deserved.

He is only grateful that she continues to stay there with them, watching him eat with a fondness that she can’t quite seem to help. He knows they will need to talk, that he owes her a great deal. He suspects, though, that whatever rift is between them will heal itself in time.

Finally, after he has done eating, she makes her apologies, casting a fond look to Lancelot as she does so, and slips up the stairs and away to do some work. Gwaine and Lancelot both continue to stay close, however, even moving to sit comfortably on the ground outside of his small cell, neither of them terribly concerned by the two Symrian knights standing close by, a tall man with a rank equivalent to Sir Leon’s, named Karl, and another man that he hasn’t yet gotten to know. As far as he can tell Karl has been his near-constant shadow from the Symrians, though the second man often rotates. Both of the men stand tall and professional, though Merlin often catches them smiling openly as he continues to speak with his two friends.

He’s not sure how long they talk, but they are drawn abruptly out of the conversation, hours later, when Arthur all but stalks around the corner, his limbs loose in a way that means drunk, eyes hard in the way that means brooding. It’s a bad combination, and one Merlin learned long ago and quickly, to avoid when possible. Arthur is irrational like this, something that becomes even more clear at his sharp and deliberate insistence that the door to Merlin’s cell be opened.

He’s not afraid of Arthur, exactly, though he certainly cuts an intimidating figure striding into the small cell with a hunter’s intent, backing Merlin sharply against the cold stone wall. He is intoxicating though, in all the best and worst ways, and having all of that intensity focused on him is…it’s hard for him to breathe through the near tangible energy that forms, like magic, between them. Pushing and pulling in equal measure so that it hurts to stand so close, hurts even more at the thought of being parted.

They are so close now, they could kiss. They are already sharing the shaky breath that Arthur draws to whisper, “Swear to me…” And Merlin is ready to do so. He’s ready to swear himself to Arthur in every way, ready to give every piece of himself to the man standing so close to him. He says so readily.

“Anything. Arthur. I’ll do anything for you.”

Only. They pull sharply apart at the sudden appearance of King Dalined, shocked back into reality as if struck by lightning. The world is dull when it comes crashing back around Merlin’s shoulders, bringing a tidal wave of guilt and regret and pain with it. Gods. He’s so confused. The world is too much and too heavy for him, and he can barely concentrate on the conversation Arthur is having with Dalined, though his eyes are drawn inexorably toward the flash of silver when it is revealed.

The metal is strange and glints oily in the low light of the dungeon, and he instantly doesn’t like the thing. It feels wrong, not that his opinion matters, really.

“It binds a sorcerer’s power. I have been assured that it causes no lasting harm, but merely prevents a sorcerer from accessing their powers.”

Merlin can’t help his instinctive flinch at the thought of not being able to have his magic. Of not being able to access the one thing about himself that is his and special.

“If Merlin agrees to wear it then I will go through with the marriage.”

And there it is. Just as there was never any question that Arthur would marry a troll he knew to be a troll, if it meant the safety of Camelot, there can be no question that Merlin will do what he must for Arthur. It is his destiny. And if his guilt, the pain of lies and betrayal, his own and Arthur’s in return, is a deeply running bitter undercurrent to his thoughts, no one else is to know it.

Even as Dalined replies hotly with “No. He will NOT.”

Merlin’s soft “I will do it” is the answer that echoes resoundingly through the closed off space of the dungeons. And when Arthur finally stands before him, the strange collar in his hands, Merlin can do nothing but close his eyes and prepare for some essential part of himself to be cut off, though he doesn’t think he could ever have prepared himself for the pain that washes over him abruptly and without mercy. It shoots over his body, through his every nerve like liquid fire, or is it ice? It’s all he can do not to scream. As it is, the cry that does slip past his lips is a shame that he might dwell upon if he could actually catch his breath, and he can only be grateful when warm arms finally take hold of him and help him to the ground. Soothing hands and words flow around him, comforting to him in the knowledge that they are there, but little more. He can’t actually feel his skin any more, and his assurances to Arthur that he’s okay are appropriate in their content, but distant, as if someone else is speaking the words.
His world goes dark.

Part 3 or Master Post