Polarity: Part 3

[castmeaway]

Part 3

Merlin wakes slowly, stiffly, to a world that is strangely dim. The colors are wrong, he muses whimsically, in his half-awake state. It’s as if someone has taken a veil and drawn it over his eyes, and the sudden lack of focus gives him a headache.

He can’t help the low groan that works itself up out of him, and he curls himself into the soft warmth of his…

Bed? The last thing he remembers is being in the dungeon…

He sits bolt upright, his hands shooting to his neck to finger the metal there, still shockingly cold despite many hours resting against the fever pitch of his skin. Gods. His magic.

He can’t help the impulsive need to know, though, the need to try and use his magic. The spell he whispers is one he has used a hundred times. Easy and natural. Only nothing happens. He can feel his magic in a distant sort of way where it is dammed back, battering at a cold and unyielding stone wall. Or at least he’d like to think it’s his power he feels. He’d talked to a an old knight once, who’d had his right arm amputated to prevent infection, and he had sworn that he could still feel his arm, although it was clearly gone.

What if his power is gone for good now too? What if he is just imagining his magic? The thought has him itching compulsively at his skin, as though if he scratches deep enough, he might puncture the barrier that is restraining his magic and let it spill out like water.

“Enough of that, my lord!” a gentle voice says, out of nowhere, and suddenly the Symrian guard, Karl, is at his side, gently soothing over his arms and the welted scratch marks. “Easy,” he drawls again, his hands continuing to stroke over Merlin’s skin, calming him with the slow methodical touch and a gentle crooning that is half reassurances and half song, that could as easily be a lullaby as a prayer.

“My magic is gone,” he whispers brokenly when he comes back into himself. Back into his own skin and a world unnaturally dim.

“I know, my lord,” Karl responds softly, “but it’s not gone forever. You’ll get it back, you’ll see.”

“How do you know?” Merlin is desperate for the answer.

“I do. It’s that damnable collar keeping it away. But the collar has a key, remember?”

He does, suddenly, remember the small key nestled in the velvet lining of the box. “Your Arthur is a fool for this, but he is a good man. He will remember that you are as well, in time.”

And Merlin nods, lets himself be lowered back into the bed.

“Rest, little sorcerer,” The Symrian knight finally says, easing the covers back over him, “You can have a few hours yet.”

Merlin barely hears the man’s softly proclaimed “Don’t fear, he does love you. He’s just too stubborn to admit it yet,” as he falls deeply into sleep once again.

He’s more settled when he finally wakes up a second time. He’s surprised to realize that he must have slept the entire night away, and it’s now nearing mid-morning again. He’s back in the room in the guest wing, and the bright morning light reflecting off the fine linens of the bed is almost bright enough for him to forget the sudden dulling of his world. Almost, but not quite.

“Ah, my lord!”

Merlin smiles faintly up at Karl, who has just opened up the door to his room to admit a softly smiling Gwen.

“If all you do is bring me food for the rest of my life, I would love you for that,” he chuckles tiredly to her. Gwen laughs at him for this, as she sets the large platter on the bed beside him, before she stands to regard him critically.

“You might have to fight Lancelot off first,” she mocks gently, after a moment “And we both know he’d let you win, and then where would we be? Hm? He’s an awful bother when he gets to brooding.”

Merlin lets out a startled laugh. “I can love you as my friend, can’t I?”

Gwen softens immediately at this and nods. “Yes, yes you can.”

The effort of smiling suddenly too much, he settles back into the plush pillows of the bed, the tray of bread and cheese and other light foods resting beside him where Gwen carefully placed it, though he pays only absent attention to it. He’s not hungry, really, and picks at the food only because he knows that it will please her.

“How do you feel?” Gwen finally asks him, her face taking on a sudden cast of seriousness. "Lancelot told me…" She hesitates, and looks at him pleadingly, and Merlin can’t bring himself to lie.

“Like the world has been covered in a fog,” he says slowly. Everything is blurry and it makes me...” He doesn’t finish the sentence, simply closes his eyes and gives up the pretense of eating. “It hurts.” He whispers, eyes still closed. “Like something important inside of me has been cut away, and my soul is bleeding through the wound.”

Gwen has no reply to this. She runs a gentle hand over his forehead, her eyes a physical pressure against his skin, before she gets up with a sigh. He knows she wants him to reassure her, but he suddenly feels so achingly tired despite how much he has slept, that he can’t bring himself to do it. This pain is his burden and his price willingly paid, to protect a dream that one day Arthur will be the man Merlin knows he can be. If the price of bringing magic back to the land is the loss of Merlin’s own, then so be it. The dragon spent half a lifetime chained beneath the ground for Arthur, how can Merlin, who loves him, do less? However, that doesn’t mean that he can’t hurt with his sacrifice, mourn the loss of an essential piece of himself to the cause.

~~~

Arthur groans deeply and winces into the harsh morning light. His entire body aches in the way that tells him he has slept too deeply and likely imbibed too much alcohol the night before. The brutal training and sparring he has run himself through during the last couple of days likely hasn’t helped much either.

He doesn’t acknowledge the way his heart aches at all. Royalty does not have the luxury to feel guilt.

It’s only been a couple of days since everything became so messed up, and he can’t help but feel a sharp resentment towards King Dalined for putting him in this place. For turning Arthur’s world so completely upside down. Morgana had taken a kingdom- or tired to- and Merlin has given him one, and here he can’t decide which is worse.

He always knew Merlin was…more. More than a servant, certainly, but…this is wrong. And now he’s supposed to marry the fool and he doesn’t know how to feel. A small part of him aches to touch Merlin, to claim him, to desire him, but mostly he can’t get past the anger. Anger at Merlin, mostly, but also at himself. He has truly only trusted a very few people in his life, and two of those people have lied to him. Have taken and taken from him, things he had never thought to offer of himself, his trust and his love, and made a fool of him in turn. He should have known better. Should have guarded himself better.

A small part of his brain wants to tell him that Merlin is different. Merlin has only ever sacrificed for him, where Morgana has asked for sacrifice, but it is a small part and he presses the thought deep.

He finally forces himself from the soft comfort of his bed and calls for the same young boy who had served him before. Within a short amount of time, he is dressed and making his way down the corridor to the council chambers. He is not eager to explain to his father the deal he made with Dalined the night before, but it is done now, and he knows it was the right thing. For all the anger and resentment, he doesn’t think he could stand for Merlin to leave him, at the side of another king or bound to a pyre. He tells himself that this way he can keep an eye out for possible treachery. An old phrase from one of his father’s councilmen flits through his thoughts: ‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.”

He enters the council chambers calmly, though he stops short and raises a questioning look when he finds his father absent. Merlin is absent as well, though he knows for a fact that he had been released from the dungeons.

“My lord,” Geoffrey speaks up, slowly and regretfully “It seems your father has taken rather desperately ill." There is a softly admonished warning in the old man’s tone, “Gaius assists him,” he finishes coolly.

A shiver of fear and pain pulls at him at this, but also relief that leaves a trail of guilt in its wake. His father has not been well for a long time, and part of Arthur is ready for the pain and uncertainty of his father’s health, and his own place within the court, to be finalized one way or another. A secret place deep in his heart simply wants his father to be put out of his misery and his madness. But these are feelings he cannot acknowledge, and doesn’t dare to dwell upon. They are treasonous thoughts. He lets the fear and the pain of his father’s degraded health wash over him, drown the bad things and keep them pressed down deep.

He cannot afford to dwell on these pains and conflicting hurts, for a council of his father’s court, looks at him in waiting curiosity and challenge. He forces himself to sharpen his mind for what must be decided here. If he feels a bit of relief that he need not explain his actions to his father for a bit longer, then no one is to know it but he.

All in all, the council takes his announcement well, not that he gives them much room to argue.

“I will go through with my marriage to prince Merlin of Symria.” he says simply. “His magic has been neutralized, and I am confident of good things between our two peoples.” His calm voice brooks no room for argument, though he sees some of the councilors shifting uncomfortably, even as many of them are also nodding.

“It should happen quickly,” Dalined offers. “I need to take the news back home with me, and soon. I shall not take you or Merlin from Camelot while your father is ill, you are needed here, but neither can I continue to stay away. And when the time comes, when I too shall sicken upon my death bed, I will call for you to take up your duty in Symria.”

And that is the end of it. They plan the wedding for three days hence, and Arthur doesn’t let himself fret at the suddenness of it, as the final agreements are made and the council retires in peace.

“You did well,” Dalined tells him, coming up behind him after the rest have filtered out. “Symria will be proud of you.” Arthur can only nod around the lump in his throat, at hearing words so close to the ones he has always craved so desperately.

“I will do well by your people, my lord,” he finally manages.

“And by Merlin as well?”

The questions brings Arthur up short, and he looks at the aging king in surprised confusion. “Merlin?”

“I chose you, Arthur Pendragon, for a reason. And I was pleased to find in you a man of honor, and one my nephew is deeply loyal to. He will die for you, if you let him. So I ask you again, will you do well by him?”

He doesn’t know how to answer, and finally manages only a vague smile, which somehow still manages to please the king, who pats him gently on the shoulder and walks away. Arthur wishes that he weren’t more confused now than ever, as he makes his way slowly and resignedly toward his father’s rooms.

~~~

Uther is not pleased at all. Arthur flinches away from the cold twist of his mouth, though he holds his ground against the anger and madness radiating through the room. For all that Uther is harsh in his cruelty, the decision has been made, and Uther does not seem to have the energy to fight him. He has withered so much from the once proud man that he was, that Arthur can’t bring himself to feel anything other than deep sorrow and pity.

“It is done, father. We shall wed three days hence, and when Dalined passes, the rule of Symria shall fall to me.”

Uther says nothing. Even like this, Uther knows they could not truly have afforded to fail in gaining an alliance with Symria, much less commit all but an act of war.

“And you will rule this sorcerer then, as well? Keep him heeled to your hand?” the words are emotionless and Arthur has to fight off the indignance he feels at them, has to work to remember his own anger, and his own thoughts, dark and ugly as his father’s words.

“His magic is collared, and the marriage will bind him to me. He will serve me.”

Half pleased, Uther falls back against the pillows and submits to Gaius, who has stayed stiff and perfectly silent, close at hand, through the conversation.

“Keep him at ease,” he tells the old man, as he walks away. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t listen for an answer from the old physician.

~~~

“No. like this” Geoffrey tells him in disgust, leaning forward to manually adjust his posture, before motioning to Lancelot to continue. And Merlin groans and focuses on keeping his posture square, only to trip on his own feet and send them both stumbling back several feet. Again .

“I can’t do this,” he whines into the other man’s shoulder, but Lancelot only laughs gently and steps him back to arm’s length.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.” He’s smiling encouragingly, and Merlin scowls in disgust and pulls away.

“Why do I have to know how to dance properly anyway? And that doesn’t even cover the fact that you seem to miraculously know how.” And dancing certainly isn’t the only thing he’s been taught over the last two days. Apparently there’s a proper way to do everything, and his head is spinning with it all.

“Come now, Merlin. We do not have time for such petty tantrums,” Geoffrey is blandly calm, though it is clear that he’s decidedly unamused at being the one assigned to turn Merlin into a perfectly mannered prince in less than three days time. “You will be required to dance with Arthur at the banquet following your marriage and coronation ceremony. You need only complete one dance, but it must be flawless.” It’s clear that the old man doesn’t even expect that of him, and only continues with this training out of duty.

“No.” Merlin is tired and annoyed too, and after two days of this, after two days of nonstop commotion in preparation for this marriage that has the whole of Camelot in an uproar of excitement, he’s sick of it all. Sick of people expecting him to feel honored or excited, for something that for him is mere duty, and another form of servitude.

“I just…I…”and suddenly a sharp pain flashes through him and he clutches his chest and stumbles forward, would have fallen to his knees if Karl hadn’t been at his side to catch him.

“Merlin?” Lancelot is at his side in a heartbeat as well, and the two knights ease him over to a chair and look at him in concern.

“It’s nothing”, he quickly reassures, and when they continue to look disbelieving, he manages a small grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m only tired, and as you all have seen quite clearly, rather clumsy. I tripped, nothing more.”

It’s clear they don’t quite believe him, but Geoffrey finally relents and calls for a small lunch, which doesn’t mean that Merlin is let off easy, by any means. It takes him an hour to remember how to navigate the proper way to eat a meal, before they once again return to attempting to teach him how to dance.

When he is finally given a few minutes peace, only the constant shadow of Karl at his side, he slumps down against a bench in the gardens, and pretends not to flinch every time someone walks by speaking of wedding plans.

“You don’t fool me.” Karl says after a long minute, and Merlin looks lifts his head and looks up at him in confusion.

“You’re in pain.” The Symrian knight is confident in this pronouncement, says the words surely and leaves no room for argument.

Merlin sighs and dips his head low once more. He can’t deny the way his skin itches, and his head hurts aches constantly. Or the way every step sends a spike of pain through his body, every touch of even the softest material does the same. It’s as if the whole world is painful for him now, like his skin has lost its layers and his nerves are exposed and under constant bombardment. And it’s strange, this sharpening sensation of his skin, in contrast with the dulling of his vision. For all he sees the world less clearly, he feels it more, and in all the most raw, painful ways.

“What happened in there, that sudden weakness, it’s not the first time that’s happened is it?” Again, Karl sounds sure of his words.

He sees well and deeply, Merlin thinks, and doesn’t bother answering. Doesn’t need to.

“I shall speak to someone immediately. This isn’t right…”

“No!” Merlin says abruptly. “No. I will speak to Gaius if you insist, but I don’t want anyone else to know.”

Karl looks at him for a long time, his black eyes warm. “Very well my prince,” he finally says. “I will say nothing, but I do not like it. You should not suffer.” Merlin quirks a look up at him at this, flinches when Karl asks “Why do you punish yourself?”

And there’s no answer. At least not one that Merlin is willing to say aloud. He says only, “Thank you for your discretion, my friend,” before rising and reluctantly making his way back inside, before Geoffrey has him sent for and becomes even more irritable than he already is.

~~~

“Merlin!” Merlin smiles in genuine pleasure at seeing the old physician, the only person who has ever truly felt like a father to him, and allows Gaius to embrace him. He hasn’t seen the old man for a couple of days, and the sight of him now is a surprising relief.

“Gaius.” He hugs the old man close, startled by the sudden upwelling of tears that hits him hard and fast and has him shaking in Gaius' arms, despite his desperate attempts to keep himself in check. His emotions are sitting to close too his skin, and he can be nothing but grateful for the soothing contact against the sharp pain that haunts him.

“Oh, my boy,” Gaius says softly, running a hand through his hair and simply holding him for a long time. “It will all be well. You’ll see,” he soothes, before pulling away to gently wipe the tears from Merlin’s eyes.

“Now, not that I don’t appreciate the visit, but why are you here? It is late, and you should be sleeping. You have a big day tomorrow.”

“He is in pain,” Karl, standing behind him, blurts out unapologetically, and Merlin turns around to glare at him.

“Hmm...in pain? How so? Merlin?” Gaius immediately goes all business.

“I uh, I don’t really know how to describe it. I think it’s the collar. But I hurt, and I feel weak.” Gaius frowned deeply at this, and bends forward to examine the collar.

“I have heard of devices such as this…”he trails off, frowns, continues to run a finger gently over the inscription on the back of it. “I have never heard of one without consequences to the sorcerer wearing it though, and you are different than most already. I have wanted to examine it since I heard what Arthur had done.” Gaius tips a finger under Merlin’s jaw and brings his face up.

“You do look something terrible,” he says, to which Merlin scowls and slumps further into the bench.

“Can you help me?”

“I can give you something for the pain, and something to help you sleep,” Gaius finally offers, “and I can do some research about this collar. But I fear that’s the best I can offer right now.” He looks apologetically at Merlin, and says, “Perhaps Arthur will change his mind about it eventually?” But it sounds weak, and Merlin can but sigh and accept the small vials Gaius slides into his hand.

“Take these,” the old physician orders gently, “And go rest. You will need what strength you have for tomorrow.”

On the third day, Arthur wakes well rested for the first time in what feels like weeks, though he is slightly annoyed by the buzz of commotion outside the tightly drawn drapes of his bed. When he finally musters the will to slip free from the comfortable warmth, he is greeted with a veritable army of servants, both Camelot- mostly- and a few Symrian servants as well.

“My lord,” one of the servants bows low to him, and takes his hand and leads him away from the table laden with the enticing sight and smells of his breakfast, and instead in the opposite direction to the steaming bath set up against the far wall. Arthur is subsequently scrubbed down and cleaned up in a manner that he hasn’t experienced he was eight. He can feel a deep flush in his cheecks, but he submits now, as he had not then, and is rewarded when he is finally allowed to make his way, clad in little more than a towel, to the table holding his breakfast.

Not that he is allowed much time to enjoy it. He knows the day ahead is to be long, and the sun is already high in the sky. While today is the day of his marriage, and gods, the thought boggles his mind, Merlin is also to go through an abbreviated coronation ceremony in which he will officially be named Dalined’s heir, and Arthurs knows this will take time.

He looks up when an old man that Arthur recognizes as the royal tailor finally enters the room. A young apprentice and several other servants are trailing behind him, holding what Arthur guesses are to be his clothes for the day, newly made for the occasion.

“My lord,” the old man says in a disgruntled voice, and instructs the servants into getting Arthur into the elaborate clothing. The rich material is soft against his skin, and fits close to his body, highlighting his features in rich creams and deep, true reds. A jeweled belt is fastened tightly about his waist and other jewels and decorations are otherwise worked onto his person, and it takes all his strength not to order the servants irritably away as he wishes for the comfortable press of his armor instead.

Finally, the tailor seems content, and offers one of the first smiles Arthur has ever seen out of the old man. “You will make a fine couple,” he says, inexplicably, before his face once again looks constipated and he walks away, his entourage trailing behind him.

Arthur stifles a small laugh, though the situation suddenly becomes shockingly real. The man was talking about Merlin, whom he had likely helped into his own clothes before coming to Arthur. Merlin who will probably be wearing the blues of Symria, and who will look like a prince, and not like a friend he once had.

Finally, finally, he shoos the small army of servants away and collapses into the softness of his favorite chair, his hand coming up to rub the spot where his coronet rests against his temple. This is all coming about too soon, and he shivers at the thought that by the evening, he will have wed Merlin, who is a sorcerer, and in the process inherited another entire kingdom. The weight that settles around his shoulders is daunting, and only barely overshadows the thought that he will also have earned, by law, the right to touch the very same pale flash that has so often entered into his dreams, a distraction then, and twice as dangerous now that it will be within his grasp to have.

He looks up as the door to his room clicks open, and he is surprised to find it is Gaius who enters stiffly.

“How is my father?” he asks, half curious, have dreading the answer. Surely Gaius wouldn’t come to him unless…

“He is well enough my lord, he will be in attendance today, worry not.”

Arthur nods at this, and casts the old man a questioning look. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company then?”

“Very little of consequence, my lord. I have only brought this to you, so that you might use it later.” Gaius steps forward surprisingly quickly and sets an elaborately blown glass vial on the table in front of Arthur.

“What is it?” He fingers the cool glass curiously, but makes no move to actually pick it up.

“It is an oil, made to soothe the muscles, my lord. An old remedy favored by the Romans.” Gaius says no more, and with one last protracted look back at Arthur, he walks out.

It takes Arthur a long moment to fully comprehend the meaning of the gift, and when he does, a deeply flaming blush washes over his face. He does pick up the vial then, considers briefly smashing it against the floor, but he finally slumps his shoulders and instead sets it carefully on the table by his bed, before walking purposefully, straight backed, from the room.

He is met with Elyan and Percival upon opening the large push of the wooden doors, and he grimaces ruefully at them as they take up flanking positions, radiant themselves in the bright splashes of their knightly regalia. Neither man says anything as they walk at an easy pace down the long and empty corridor, and Arthur is grateful for their easy presence and unspoken support. The thought suddenly strikes him that, though Elyan and Percival, the most unfamiliar of the knights to him, are both newly of his acquaintance and knighthood, they are unquestionably his men.

He is grateful for the thought, and eases between them, lets their support wash over him as they come upon the small antechamber leading into the main throne room.

“Merlin…” Elyan hesitates and trails off. “Do not forget your friend,” he says, resting a gentle hand on Arthur’s shoulder, and Arthur sighs and relaxes with the touch, though before he can respond, before he can even marshal his thoughts into some semblance of order, Percival has stepped forward to push the door to the room open.

Merlin is a tall silhouette against the bright halo of the window, and he half turns at the sound of the door opening. Arthur is surprised to realize that he hasn’t seen Merlin since that night in the dungeon, and he is startled all over again at the sight of his- the word friend slips unheeded into his thoughts, echoing Elyan’s words- and he shakes his head, and carefully keeps his emotions free from his face.

Merlin turns fully then, realizing who has entered the room with him, and he offers Arthur a feint hesitant smile, that fades when Arthur remains indifferent.

“Arthur.” Merlin nods carefully at him, his shoulder stiffly firm in a surprisingly respectable attempt at good posture, though the effect is ruined a bit when Merlin reflexively brings a hand up to fidget at the flash of silver hidden beneath the rigid, heavily embroidered collar of his doublet.

Arthur can’t bring himself to say anything, though he is unconsciously taken back into a memory that feels like it is from a lifetime ago. Standing in this very same room, wearing clothes not so different than what he wears now, his crown heavy on his head. And Merlin. Merlin in the garb of a servant, his eyes flashing passionately, as he speaks of destiny and tells Arthur that he shouldn’t marry for anything less than love.

He wonders if this is destiny.

He also wonders if Merlin would give him the same advice now, and a flash of sharply hot anger pricks at his skin, at the knowledge that he won’t. But then, they are different people now, and he can’t bring himself regret that either, not entirely.

A sudden flash of inspiration hits him then, and he softens and walks up close to Merlin, who tenses but does not pull away. There are so many things he is not ready to forgive, but he knows that things have not been easy for Merlin either. He forces himself to remember that Merlin has lost as much as he, if not more. The image of Will in his mind leaves a surprising sensation of both guilt and inspired understanding. He also begins to realize that perhaps much of his anger comes from his confusion, more than anything. He is confused by feelings that are suddenly about to become acceptable. Confused by who this man, who stands so close to him, is.

There are things that they will need to speak of, but for the moment his anger is tempered by the fear and barely-veiled pain he recognizes in the tense line of Merlin’s shoulders and the wideness of his eyes when he looks searchingly over at him. And for all that he wants to, he cannot ignore all the years of friendship and loyalty, in service to an anger he has not yet comprehended in full. Neither can he quite bring himself to say the reassuring words that he knows Merlin wants, but he does let some of the aloofness drift away from him, and his hold on Merlin’s arm is gentle when they turn toward the door leading into the main throne room.

The knights, wearing the bloody reds of Camelot and the deep bruised blues of Symria assemble in formation around them, a silent force of deadly precision and chivalry, and Arthur knows they must make quite the vision when they enter into the throne room, to the staring eyes of half of Camelot and the entire delegation of Symria.

Uther and Dalined, both arrayed in the finest of clothes and jewels, sit in twin thrones, side by side, while two smaller thrones sit empty to their left and more centered on the dais, waiting for Merlin and Arthur. Geoffrey stands slightly in the wings, flanked by another man that Arthur recognizes as a chief member of Dalined’s council who will likely perform Merlin’s coronation, though Arthur knows that Geoffrey will perform the actual marriage rights.

They step up to the base of the stairs, and here Arthur moves away and to the side, leaving Merlin standing centered and facing the Symrian delegate, who steps forward, a slim circlet set generously with deeply brilliant sapphires, held reverently in his hands.

At this point, Dalined stands slowly, moves forward to the man’s side and takes up the circlet into his own hands. A look of pride quirks his lips into a faint smile while the old man leads Merlin in a traditional Symrian oath, not so different from one Arthur himself had spoken, another lifetime ago, and in a world much more simple and riddled with so much less responsibility.

The entire process only takes a short amount of time, and Arthur watches as Merlin repeats the final oath, before kneeling carefully before King Dalined, who places the crown gently upon his brow. Merlin’s rise is equally slow and careful and Arthur can’t help but narrow his eyes a bit at this, but any suspicions that might be flirting around his mind quickly vanish when Merlin turns sedately around, to the polite applause from the citizens of Camelot and the more obviously pleased ovations of the Symrian delegation.

The circlet glints entrancingly in the bright light streaming into the room from the high, colored windows, and Arthur is surprised by how difficult it is for him to take his eyes away from the sight of the man who is soon to become hand-fasted to him in law bond. He nearly misses the subtle signal inviting him to come and stand near to Merlin, and he shakes his head slowly and lengthens his stride until he stands close, side by side, his hand reaching out to tangle together with Merlin’s at the instructing gesture by Geoffrey. Merlin’s hand is cool against his, long fingers loose where they interlace with Arthur’s, and he can’t stop the shiver that travels up his arm and through his body, startling him into a sudden, serious clarity. They turn then, to face each other, and he reaches to grasp Merlin’s other hand into his, even as Geoffrey makes a low rumble deep in his throat in preamble to the opening of the wedding ceremony.

“We are gathered here today,” he begins, “To celebrate the ancient rite of hand-fasting between Prince Arthur of Camelot and Prince Merlin of Symria.”

The words ring loud and clear and terrifying in the heavy echo of the room.

“Is it your wish Arthur, to become one with this man?” Geoffrey continues smoothly, and Arthur closes his eyes briefly, before looking up and into the clear brilliance of Merlin’s. He’s is surprised with the easy way the words fall from his tongue.

“It is.”

Geoffrey nods and continues, “And is it your wish, Merlin to become one with this man, Arthur Pendragon of Camelot?”

Merlin’s answer is equally quick in falling from his lips, and his affirmative is softly, if clearly, spoken. Arthur is surprised with the way the other man’s words travel arrow-quick and painful into his heart, inflaming a surprisingly violent passion. The emotion is strange and unfamiliar, and he can see that Merlin recognizes the change in him, his eyes going wide in a question Arthur can’t begin to know how to answer or ease.

“Do any say nay?” The question is little more than a background hum amidst the raging in his ears.

“The rings then.” Geoffrey gestures at Arthur, who produces a slender ring encrusted with a single ruby surrounded by two small diamonds. The ring is an heirloom his father had given him in his youth. He could not, if pressed, explain why he had chosen this ring, at Geoffrey’s prompting, to give to Merlin as a sign of his troth, only that he thought it suiting, and he liked the idea of something so personal in Merlin’s possession.

He’s surprised to see that Merlin is beginning to look panicked as Arthur takes up an unresisting hand and slips the ring easily onto Merlin’s finger. His fingers twitch slightly at the strange new weight, but Arthur realizes that it is clear that this is not what has Merlin distraught. Before he can grasp the problem, however, Dalined steps easily to Merlin’s side and offers his hand palm up. Merlin sighs a small blown out breath, and nods his head at the Symrian king, before he reaches for the intricately-made silver ring, elegant not so much for the single diamond, as for the way the band is made up of several delicate strands woven together to form a sturdy ring that feels surprisingly warm and comfortable when Merlin slides it hesitantly onto Arthur’s finger.

The ceremony continues quickly after that, and he startles when Geoffrey announces it ended, and instructs them to complete the public binding with a kiss. Merlin tilts his chin up in a gesture that bears a front of defiance and challenge, but cannot hide the apprehension bright in his eyes. It must be done, however, and Arthur sighs lowly and reaches forward to cradle Merlin’s cheek gently into his palm, a warning, before he pulls him forward into a chaste brush of lips, that is inflaming none the less. Merlin’s lips stay firm against him for a moment, and then he staggers a small step away, eyes half-lidded, and his face turned away in profile.

In a fit of pettiness, a remnant of his earlier rage, Arthur does not allow Merlin to keep turned away from him, but uses his hold to pull Merlin unnecessarily roughly around, to once again face the cheering crowd within the room, before backing them toward the two smaller thrones set back a bit further on the dais.

~~~

Merlin is content, out of necessity, to allow Arthur to guide his body, and he eases gratefully down into the throne, his hand still clasped in the cool enveloping grasp of the man who is now his husband. He can only take some small comfort in the fact that, for the most part, the hard parts are over, and for now he is required to do little more than sit and smile as the Symrian delegation come forward to acknowledge him as their heir apparent, and Arthur as his husband.

They come to him one by one, then, in accordance of rank, and kneel before him to swear their oaths. It is a strange feeling, sitting there in a position of such power, as he hears oaths of men he doesn’t know, lets them take his hand in symbol of their promise. Their bows are low and perfect, and he acknowledges them carefully, diligent in maintaining his posture and careful in guarding his tongue. The procession is certainly not long, for the delegation is small, but it somehow feels as if it goes on for a small eternity. Merlin is grateful when the last of the Symrian knights takes hold of his hand and presses the chastest of kisses to it, before sidestepping neatly to bow deeply to Arthur.

A small group of Camelot’s court is next, he knows, out of respect, but this is a quicker procession, for there are no oaths of fealty here, merely an acknowledgement of him as Arthur’s spouse.

Only. His lips part in surprise when Leon, leading the knights of Camelot, kneels before him and takes his hand in perfect imitation of the Symrians. Arthur has gone perfectly rigid beside him, and he is vaguely aware of a small commotion where Uther is sitting.

“I vow to you my life and my blade, that I may serve you in loyalty and with honor.” Leon is deadly serious in this oath that he should not be offering so freely. Merlin’s power in Camelot is only that of Arthur’s husband. He has no claim to the throne here, no real power, especially while Uther still reigns, and that Leon is making an oath of fealty to him equal to his oath to Arthur, is remarkable and perhaps treasonous. Merlin can feel a tear well in the corner of his eye at the gesture, though his heart forebodes the consequences.

“I accept your oath.” The words choke in his throat, but he speaks them clearly, and is further stunned when nearly half of the knights of Camelot, with a smiling Lancelot second in line, follow suite with no hesitation.

Arthur remains severely tense beside him, and Merlin can practically feel the anger rolling off him. He shifts subtly away as much as he can, though he is allowed little quarter. The ceremony has come to an end, and will lead directly into the celebratory feast, meant to last well and deeply into the night. Merlin can’t help but wonder what the night will bring for him, and he winces when Arthur snatches his hand back into a tight hold, harsher now than it was, and leads him down the aisle of people and back into the antechamber for a brief respite, before they will make their official appearance at the banquet.

“What the hell was that?” Arthur hisses when they are finally alone.

Merlin flinches. “I don’t know. You don’t think I...”

Arthur cuts him off harshly,

“I don’t know what to think about you anymore Merlin.” The way Arthur says his name is reminiscent of their old friendship, but the bitterness lining his name brings home to Merlin, more than just about anything else, how truly broken they are. It's almost funny that, in this moment, when they are more fragmented than they’ve ever been, they are also, by law, closer than ever. They are married now, and Merlin isn’t sure he can bring himself to consider a future of hearing his name said in such bitter hatred.

“Do you hate me so much?” he asks softly, his head lowered in submissive sadness, “That you think I would facilitate such a thing? I would never betray your trust willingly, or give your men reason to do so.”

Arthur sneers, “You’ve lied to me every day that I’ve ever known you. What do you call that then? You are a sorcerer.” Arthur is fiercely angry and guarded as he says this, though his voice lowers when he finally all-but-whispers, “I don’t know what to think about you anymore.”

Merlin can believe this, can see how deeply the conflict runs in Arthur’s eyes. A strange mix anger and betrayed hurt, and also perhaps…Merlin’s eyes widen when he finally recognizes that last look, that last element of the complicated swirl of emotions all but bleeding out of Arthur’s skin. Desire. Arthur desires him, in some way at least, and that emotion is warring with all the betrayal and anger. Worse, he knows that many of those emotions must be reflected inwardly, and that is what has made Arthur like this, so angry. He hurts for that understanding.

“You must know that I will always be loyal to you,” he finally says. “I don’t know if you can believe me, but for all the lies, the truest thing I ever told you was that I would die for you, if it could protect you from harm.” He’s not sure what else to say, so he reaches up and presses a gentle hand to Arthur’s cheek, his newly adorned ring glinting in the lowering light of the day.

Softer, barely above a whisper, he says “I’m sorry,” before he turns and walks away and leaves Arthur standing, gaping, behind him.

Part 4 or Master Post