Merlin: A Chuisle (2)
Chapter 2! :D And actually, I realized there are spoilers in the general story here and there for most of season one, so I figured I would just update the spoiler warning here with that. ^^;
5,124 words~
A Chuisle: Chapter 2
“I think I know what’s happening,” Merlin said quietly. He’d thought about what to say and how to say it for days, but in the end he could find no way to soften the blow - he would just have to gather up his meager courage and confront the prince. And today, he’d decided, was the day. He put down the boots he was polishing in the corner of Arthur’s room and stood to face the prince, his heartbeat beginning to quicken.
Arthur winced and looked round at Merlin, his eyes falling first upon the vial from Gaius that sat at the far end of the table, though he did not move to take it. But that was more than enough - proof upon the proof Merlin already had now, and again he wondered how he could have been so blind, before.
“I think… I think we have somehow become bound, my lord,” Merlin said, ducking his head and feeling altogether most uncomfortable. He may not have planned out beforehand what to say, but he knew he was going to have to tread carefully if he was going to keep his magic a secret. He knew that if Gaius found out, he’d have Merlin’s head - if Uther didn’t first, that was. And that would have more dire consequences than he cared to think about right now.
“What?” Arthur was incredulous now, his eyes wide and staring when Merlin chanced a glance up at the prince. “What on earth do you mean, Merlin? Bound how, by whom?”
“By magic,” Merlin said carefully, his head still bowed but his eyes locked on Arthur’s. “That night… in the forest. You died that night, Arthur, right before my eyes. But something brought you back.” My magic, he thought silently, but could not bring himself to tell the prince that part of it. That would surely sign his death warrant, and suddenly Arthur looked angry enough to make Merlin wonder if maybe he’d already said too much. But still he plowed on, “It was… I think it might have somehow done something to us. ”
“Done something?” Arthur was quiet for a long moment, and Merlin let him work it out for himself. Then, “… No,” Arthur said, quietly at first and then again, louder - “No!” He slammed his fist down on the table; the sound made Merlin jump, and his heart began to race. He wasn’t sure which of them was responsible for it, or if it was both of them at once, but his heart sped along all the same. He felt short of breath, and shook his head.
“It’s not a bad thing, Arthur - you’re alive because of it, you -”
“No!” Arthur shouted again, and for the first time Merlin was truly frightened of him, of the anger and despair he could see mingled in Arthur’s eyes, and of the shock and hurt coursing through his veins.
Then Arthur turned, looking straight at Merlin. His face was livid. “How dare you suggest such a thing. Get out of here, Merlin.” Merlin took a step back, but stood his ground, until Arthur advanced on him, arms waving in anger. “I said, leave me alone!”
Merlin did as he was told the second time, slipping out of the room so quickly that he could scarcely remember doing it; he stood for a long moment in the corridor, his heart still beating a frantic rhythm against his chest.
He didn’t know what exactly he’d said to make Arthur react like that - of course Merlin knew that any sort of magic was forbidden, but even that couldn’t explain Arthur’s anger as well as he’d like. Arthur had seen magic before, had even told Merlin of its evils. But he’d never reacted with such anger before. Not when it had saved his life.
He made his way back to Gaius’ chambers slowly, taking deep breaths and trying to calm himself - and Arthur. But he could still feel his heart racing with anger, and when he finally came to the physician’s workroom he walked right past the old man and into his bedroom, careful not to slam the door as he closed it. He lay on his bed in the waning light of evening, and wished he had thought of something better to say.
*
Merlin knocked, tentatively, and then poked his head into Arthur’s room.
The prince was sitting at the table, facing the fire with his back to the door. There was a goblet and pitcher beside him; Merlin was fairly sure they did not contain water.
“My lord… Do you need anything?” he asked carefully.
Arthur didn’t move, even at the sound of his voice. “Merlin.” A pause. “I don’t require your services tonight.”
But Merlin simply could not take any more. It had been a week - a week of this, of Arthur brushing him off or only speaking to him long enough to say things like, “Polish my armor,” or, “Bring me my boots.”
He slipped the rest of the way into the room, shutting the door behind him. He let out a breath - Arthur stiffened, clearly having expected Merlin to leave. But before Arthur could get another word of dismissal in, Merlin spoke.
“Can’t we talk?” Merlin hated it when Arthur was angry with him - all week he’d wanted nothing more than to make things between them all right or, if not that, at least better, somehow. But how could he do that when Arthur kept dismissing him as soon as he’d come?
“We have nothing to talk about.” Arthur was clearly as stubborn as he was ill-mannered and rash.
“Yes, we do,” Merlin said, secure in the knowledge that he could be just as stubborn as Arthur, if not more so. “You can’t keep ignoring me forever.”
Arthur snorted, as though to say that yes, he could. Merlin shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably, but not about to leave the room until they’d gotten at least a few things out in the open.
His tenacity appeared to eat away at even Arthur’s resolve to stay silent, eventually. “Fine, then,” the prince said. “Talk.”
Faced with the prospect of Arthur actually agreeing to listen to him for the first time in a week, Merlin suddenly found himself devoid of words.
Not one to be stopped by something so mundane as not knowing what to say, however, Merlin plowed on. “I just wanted to say that I’m… I’m glad you’re all right.” He paused, shifting uncomfortably. “I mean, I’m glad you’re alive, Arthur. Even if… if something strange is happening to us, you’re alive and well and you should be thankful for -”
“I know it was you,” Arthur said suddenly, as he shifted in his chair and stood, pacing a bit. “I’ve been thinking on it a great deal this past week, and I think you’ve been responsible for quite a lot since you’ve arrived in Camelot.” Arthur stopped and finally looked over at him, his features deceptively open, and although he didn’t seem overly angry, Merlin still felt the distinct stirrings of fear and dread in the pit of his stomach. Something about that look in Arthur’s eyes just set him on edge.
His mouth opened almost against his will, even as his mind continued to race frantically in circles like a frightened animal, devising excuses and just as quickly dismissing them as absurd. “I…”
“Don’t deny it,” Arthur said.
Merlin didn’t.
For a moment then Arthur’s face worked, as he perhaps realized once and for all that it had been Merlin. Perhaps his surety hadn’t been enough. Perhaps he’d needed Merlin to truly confirm or deny the accusation. His silence had apparently been enough.
The prince turned away, looking into the fire once more. Merlin watched the outline of his jaw in the firelight, the way the flames seemed to soften his profile. “Can it be broken?” The words were barely a whisper, but Merlin heard them clearly enough.
“I don’t think so,” Merlin said quietly.
Before him, Arthur clenched and unclenched his fists. “What would happen,” he asked, his voice deadly calm and quiet, “if you were to die?”
Merlin felt his heart begin to race; in front of the fire, he saw Arthur cringe and shift before the prince’s gaze swung around to capture his. “What would happen, Merlin?”
“Then…” Merlin swallowed. “Then you would die, as well.”
The silence that followed was nearly palpable - the only sound was the popping of the fire and Merlin’s pulse racing in his ears.
Then, finally, Arthur spoke again. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”
“I - ”
“I’ve always been my own man, Merlin. I’m the prince, and someday I’ll be the king. I can’t rely on anyone. No one. I have to be my own man, and now you’ve made me… you’ve made me yours. You haven’t the right! How could you do that to Camelot - to me?”
Merlin cringed, feeling as though he very much wanted the stone floor of Arthur’s chambers to swallow him up and leave no trace. Something cold and hard had settled in the pit of his stomach, and it was making him feel sick. “But I saved your life! Is it really so bad?” His argument seemed so small compared to Arthur’s rage, only ocean waves beating upon the rock-hard shore of Arthur’s anger. Merlin was afraid that he’d be beaten to pieces, smashed against those rocks, but he couldn’t allow it. What would become of Athur if he did?
“Of course it is!” Arthur roared, his cheeks flushed with rage as he rounded on his manservant, his outline angry and red-tinged in the firelight. “You’ve bound me to you forever, and not even with chains that I might hope to break! I can’t even tell my father, because he’ll have you killed. I’m trapped, Merlin, trapped and I will never be free again. How dare you.”
Merlin’s mouth opened but he could find no words to say, nothing that might assuage Arthur’s rage. Arthur looked at Merlin, and his eyes were filled with nothing but hatred. “I wish you had left me there to die. I was free, then. And now I never will be. You’re so selfish, Merlin. You’re nothing but a selfish, cowardly sorcerer, poisoning my life and I wish I’d never met you!”
Both of them were angry now, hearts racing and minds on fire. They each knew they were irrevocably linked, bound until the end of this life, and that nothing could ever change that. And at that moment, when Merlin’s heart broke, Arthur felt it as though it were his own.
“Get out, Merlin,” Arthur said. “Get out before I have you thrown in the dungeons for the rest of your miserable life.”
Merlin got out.
And it was when he was on the other side of Arthur’s door, with his back to the smooth wood, that he came back to himself and stood, for a small eternity, feeling something wet on his cheeks and his heart racing in his chest and he wondered, truly wondered, how it could still be beating.
He spent the rest of the afternoon wandering aimlessly about the castle, stopping in secluded corners to try and clear his jumbled mind before failing and moving on. It was well after dark when he found himself back at the door to Gaius’ chambers, and by the time he’d passed the threshold he knew what he had to do.
“Gaius,” Merlin said quietly, as the old man looked up from his dinner, “I think I’ve done something terrible.”
“What is it?” Gaius asked, and for once his voice held no exasperation or scorn, only genuine worry and that, Merlin thought, actually made it worse.
He bowed his head and told Gaius - told him everything, from beginning to end. The court physician sat there as Merlin told his tale, silent for the whole of it, until Merlin stopped speaking with a sort of half-sob and could only end with, “And I’ve ruined everything, Gaius - how am I supposed to face him ever again?”
“Oh, Merlin…” There was movement, the sound of a stool being pushed back and then there was a hand at his shoulder, warm and reassuring as best it could be. “You’ve done something, indeed,” Gaius said slowly, carefully. “Arthur is angry because it was magic that saved him. You know how he feels about magic, Merlin,” he continued, eyes boring into Merlin like they could see to the heart of his thoughts. Merlin nodded guiltily. “He feels betrayed that something he believes to be so evil has saved his life, and bound it to yours without his consent.”
“Well I couldn’t have very well asked him!” Merlin said, his voice sounding too-loud in the echoing room. “He was dead, Gaius - dead, and I don’t even know that I could have stopped this from happening, myself.”
“I know…” The hand on Merlin’s shoulder squeezed, gently. “And I think you did the right thing.”
Merlin could only hang his head. “And now Arthur knows what I am.”
“Yes,” Gaius echoed thoughtfully, “he does. But he won’t tell his father. The worst it seems he’ll do, for now, is dismiss you as his manservant.”
Merlin’s stomach clenched at the thought. Much though he hated having to serve Arthur day in and out at the prince’s beck and call, he’d grown used to it, somehow. He was comfortable with it, in a way that he’d never been comfortable with much else. The thought of losing that - of losing Arthur - weighed heavily on his mind, and in his stomach.
Gaius seemed to understand Merlin’s silence; he patted the boy on the shoulder and gently pushed him in the direction of his room. “Go to bed, Merlin. Get some rest. We’ll talk about this more in the morning.”
*
But it appeared that Arthur would not dismiss his manservant, not even over something as earthshattering as the revelations he’d experienced last night. First thing in the morning, before the sun was barely more than a half-disc above the horizon, there was a knock at Merlin’s door. The warlock roused from sleep slowly, and had just sat up in bed when the door opened and Gaius’ head appeared.
“It would seem,” Gaius said, and Merlin couldn’t miss the note of irony in his voice, “that Arthur has need of you. Now.”
But while Arthur had need of Merlin’s services, it became instantly clear that he did not feel the need to speak with him, or even really acknowledge his presence at all, aside from giving him a few curt orders and turning his back. Merlin stood with his back to the door, feeling trapped in the prince’s rooms as Arthur stalked over to the window and leaned on the stone sill, apparently expecting Merlin to carry out his orders of, “I want you to wash every square inch of this floor and then polish the table and bedposts, would you?” without complaint or conversation.
At that moment Merlin didn’t have within himself to argue. Silence reigned for most of the day, while Arthur ignored his manservant to do nothing in particular; later he went out to train with his knights, which left Merlin gasping for breath with spots dancing before his eyes before the afternoon was out. Kneeling on the floor with his head bowed and waiting for his heart to slow, Merlin wondered about the consequences of asking Arthur to go just a little easier on himself, once in a while. Once, he might have gotten a self-satisfied chuckle and an admonishment from the prince. Now Merlin wondered if Arthur could be trusted not to lock him away in the dungeon for speaking in such a way.
Day in and day out, it was the same. Arthur grew more and more distant; he spent most of his time with his knights, and when they were not practicing and drilling they were drinking and wenching. Merlin walked about with a continual sense of nauseous dread that the unsolicited clenching and racing of his heart at the most inopportune times did little to lessen. He would spend hours waiting for Arthur in the prince’s empty chambers, feeling like he was trapped in a place in which he no longer fit, and yet didn’t dare to leave. If Arthur returned to his chambers and Merlin wasn’t there to undress the prince and put him to bed, no matter the reason or the hour, he was likely to throw his manservant in the stocks the next day and then double his workload the day after that. The stocks weren’t so bad once in a while, but Merlin didn’t fancy spending the rest of his life as a target for rotting tomatoes. Though these days, he wondered if remaining Arthur’s manservant was really much different. In fact, it was possibly worse.
If Merlin was honest with himself, it felt like he’d been cut off from half of himself - he felt hollow and lonely, though he couldn’t explain even to himself why Arthur’s behavior might induce such a feeling. He knew that he had come to consider Arthur a friend - he couldn’t deny it anymore, not even to himself - but he knew now that he had been wrong to think that. And yet all the same, this feeling he’d grown accustomed to felt disturbingly like the way he’d felt for weeks after the raids on Ealdor, when he’d wake in the night and suddenly remember that Will was dead.
Merlin became a nameless, faceless figure in Arthur’s life, there only to please him and take punishment when the prince was not feeling congenial. Destiny began to sound more like a word and less like a cause. But no matter how Arthur cut him out of his life, there was one part in which Merlin would always and forever share. And it hurt all the more, feeling that part of Arthur within him, like a phantom pain from a limb that had been long since severed.
So wrapped up in his worry was Merlin that he failed to see the signs until it was too late. He didn’t notice the subtle trickery, the seething glances, did not even notice the concealed and bespelled daggers until the assassin was standing, weapons and intentions bared, ready to strike at Arthur before he could draw his sword.
And then there was no time left.
“No!”
Thought abandoned him and instinct took over and there, before the eyes of all the assembled court and the king himself, Merlin let loose a bolt that took down the attacker in one swift motion, the words flowing liquid from his lips and forming into a single, pure blue arc. The power hit the man square in the back and sent him reeling head over heels to the stone floor, coming to a silent stop a handspan from Uther’s feet.
For a moment time seemed to freeze, though Merlin’s magic had nothing to do with it. His body felt leaden, too heavy and not willing to respond to his mind’s commands. Merlin stood rooted to the floor, and a heartbeat later, all around him, chaos erupted.
Suddenly everyone in the room was yelling at once; almost before the command to seize him was out of Uther’s mouth, three guards had seemingly materialized out of nowhere; two sets of iron grips clamping down on Merlin’s arms. The deadly point of a pike rested at the hollow of his throat.
Uther shouted for silence, and he got it. The only sound in the great hall now was the clicking of Uther’s boots against the stone as he walked towards the sorcerer now held captive by his men. He pushed the man with the pike aside, moving to stand before Merlin and look at him with eyes as cold as the winter snows.
“Merlin, you?”
Merlin swallowed; his world had narrowed to his pulse racing in his veins and Uther’s cold, barren stare before him. The hands on his arms burned like fire. He could not even spare half a thought to realize that Uther knew his name, was looking at him like an old family friend who’d just turned up at the gate with a sword in his hand and vengeance on his lips.
“You are a sorcerer.”
It wasn’t a question; all the same, Merlin’s mouth opened, and out spilled a half-choked, “Yes, your majesty.”
Uther’s jaw tightened. “Then by the law of Camelot, you are under arrest. You shall be put to death at first light tomor-”
“But he’s just saved your son’s life!” Morgana protested vehemently; her face was white and her eyes dark as she swiftly approached Uther, skirts in her hands.
Uther’s expression was hard and unyielding. “Morgana, you cannot-”
“Wait.”
Merlin’s heart leapt for just an instant - that was Arthur; Arthur, who was wincing and leveling a glare at Merlin before he stepped forward to address his father. Uther turned now to look at his son, but his jaw was still set and his eyes were still hard. The king did not like being interrupted - or contradicted.
“I know he is your servant, Arthur, but I cannot give him special dispensation because of it.”
“Father,” Arthur said quietly. He glanced around the room, at the knights with their swords drawn, at Morgana and Gwen, standing ashen-faced and still. “I wish to speak with you alone.”
Silence. Then, “Very well.” Uther made a gesture; the room emptied in seconds, Morgana tossing Arthur a look that spoke volumes before sweeping out, and Gwen turning pleading eyes to Merlin as she passed. But Merlin could not answer what was in those eyes, not with anything in all the world.
And then the great hall was empty, save for the king, his son, and the guards with the sorcerer between them.
“What is it you would say in his defense?” Uther asked his son, his voice clearly stating that any argument Arthur could present had already been considered and dismissed.
“Nothing in his defense, Father,” Arthur said quietly, not looking at Merlin, “but something in mine. There is a confession I wish to-”
“It’s my fault!” Merlin said, interrupting the prince and rewarded for his outburst by two pairs of steely eyes turning to rest upon him. “It’s my fault, my lord, and the prince had nothing to do with it.”
Uther turned back to his son. “What is he talking about?”
“If you kill Merlin, you will kill me as well.” Arthur’s words were quiet and steady and Merlin could not tell, through the frantic racing of his own heart, if the prince felt anything at all as he said them.
“Explain yourself.” Merlin realized then that Uther thought Arthur was talking figuratively - perhaps he thought his son fancied his manservant. The idea was so absurd, the situation so very nearly too much to handle, that Merlin nearly broke down into hysterics. But now was not the time, and the inane laughter bubbling in his chest could not make it past the lump in his throat.
“I… I saved his life once, my lord,” Merlin said, before Arthur would have the chance to continue. “I did not know myself what I was doing - I tied his heart to mine, to keep it beating, and what my heart does, the prince’s will echo.”
There was a silence then, so heavy that Merlin thought the entirety of Camelot might crumble beneath it. He wanted to look away from Uther, to look at Arthur and see if he felt anything now, anything at all, but he could not tear his eyes away from the king.
“Undo it,” Uther said, quietly, and there was murder in his voice. “Undo your horrid enchantment and release my son this instant.”
Merlin felt close to tears. “I… I’m sorry, my lord. It cannot be undone.”
The look Uther gave Merlin then was something from a nightmare. His eyes filled with hatred, pure hatred of the deepest kind and it mingled with something else, something worse - betrayal. Merlin felt as though the ground had fallen away beneath him; he felt sick to his stomach and sick in his heart. Right then, he would have given anything, anything, to have been able to undo the past, to sever the tie between himself and Arthur. Anything, if only Uther would not look at him like that anymore.
But he could not. He closed his eyes, shook his head. “I can’t. I can’t.”
Beyond the king, Arthur was breathing shallowly, his mouth slightly open and his fists clenched at his sides.
“Then what am I to do?” Uther thundered, and for a moment Merlin feared that he would draw his sword and run him through, consequences or not. But the king only whirled to face first his son, then the sorcerer who had ensnared him. “Sorcery is evil and you must be put to death for your crimes, and yet I will not condemn my own son for the wickedness which is yours.” Uther paused for breath, his eyes wide and his face pale.
“The dungeons, then,” he said at last, his voice heavy as he passed judgment on the traitor before him. “I condemn you, Merlin, to the deepest dungeon to live out your life in chains. You will be kept under guard at all times, and you will be fed only enough to keep you alive. I fear,” Uther said, and turned away, “that is the worst sentence I can pass, if I am to save my son.” He looked to Arthur, then spun to face Merlin once more. “May you rot in every hell there ever was, boy, if you should be the one to take my son to his grave.”
*
True to the king’s word, Merlin was more than half-dragged down far too many steps to count; they had to be near the entrance to the caves beneath the castle when the guards finally stopped. The corridors here were dark; they were far below the earth and no light or fresh air ever reached here. The third guard, still carrying the pike set at Merlin’s back, now also carried a torch that threw flickering shadows against the walls as they threw Merlin into the cell where he was to live out the rest of his days on this earth.
Cold iron was clamped about his wrists and ankles, and he was left alone in the dark. The door to his cell was heavy and wooden, with only a slot in it to give him food and water. It was not large enough to fit more than a human hand, at best.
Merlin heard the key turn in the lock and felt as though his destiny had been truly sealed, once and for all. But the dragon had been wrong, so wrong - bound to Arthur Merlin might be, but not to stand by his side. No, he was bound to live out his days below the earth, chained as the dragon was, forbidden his death and his freedom.
For the briefest of moments, Merlin could remember all too clearly the day he had stood on the precipice of the dragon’s cave, listening in horror as he asked Merlin, would he not prefer it if Uther were dead? Should he not let the king be killed, let Arthur take his place? Should he not hate the man that had hunted down and killed his kind, the man that had forced him to live in fear?
And, for that brief moment, Merlin imagined what things might be like now, if he had let those things happen, if he had not tried to stop the Uther’s would-be assassins that day in the woods. Might he then be free, right now?
But it didn’t matter - nothing mattered now but the cold and the dark around him, and the thoughts in his head that were to be his only company. Merlin laughed then, a hollow sound that was eaten up swiftly by the stone of his cell. He could go mad in here, he thought, with naught to talk to but himself and nothing to occupy his mind day in and day out.
Gaius had come to him, at first, and Gwen too. Merlin had been sure that Uther would have forbidden it, had he known, but the guards had not stopped them from talking to him. They had spoken with him through the slot in the door; they had spent time with him and told him of the world that had once been his. They told him that Morgana was livid, that she and Uther were no longer speaking and she was spending more time away from the castle than within it.
Merlin wondered if the king blamed him, then, for stealing both of his children away.
But eventually, the time that Gwen and Gaius had to give him became less and less as what must have been days passed into weeks and life in the castle went on. Time lost meaning for Merlin; he was brought one meal a day, stale bread and tepid water. Enough to live on, nothing more. He didn’t know how long it had been - he’d stopped counting his meals somewhere after thirty. He became accustomed to the constant gnaw of hunger in his gut, used to the cold that seeped through his clothes and into his skin from all around him.
At first he had talked his throat raw, reciting everything he knew forwards and backwards and forwards again. He repeated aloud every herb Gaius had ever showed him, told the walls of his cell their medicinal properties and where they could be found. The darkness swallowed up his words until he forgot them, until one day he found that speaking had become just too much work, more than he had left in him, and he fell silent and let the cold darkness close around him.
In time, the only connection he had left with the world above was the beating of Arthur’s heart. No matter their distance or the layers of stone and earth between them, nothing could sever that tie; Merlin would still jerk into awareness as his heart quickened with Arthur’s exertions, still wake all too often with his body trembling and needy. Visions of Arthur haunted his fractured dreams, the prince proud and angry and ever-distant, always just out of reach.
But Arthur was alive, and as long as he was alive then Merlin’s sacrifice was not in vain. It was the beating of the prince’s heart that kept Merlin eating, and the thoughts of Arthur that kept his mind, little of it left though there was, alive.
5,124 words~
A Chuisle: Chapter 2
“I think I know what’s happening,” Merlin said quietly. He’d thought about what to say and how to say it for days, but in the end he could find no way to soften the blow - he would just have to gather up his meager courage and confront the prince. And today, he’d decided, was the day. He put down the boots he was polishing in the corner of Arthur’s room and stood to face the prince, his heartbeat beginning to quicken.
Arthur winced and looked round at Merlin, his eyes falling first upon the vial from Gaius that sat at the far end of the table, though he did not move to take it. But that was more than enough - proof upon the proof Merlin already had now, and again he wondered how he could have been so blind, before.
“I think… I think we have somehow become bound, my lord,” Merlin said, ducking his head and feeling altogether most uncomfortable. He may not have planned out beforehand what to say, but he knew he was going to have to tread carefully if he was going to keep his magic a secret. He knew that if Gaius found out, he’d have Merlin’s head - if Uther didn’t first, that was. And that would have more dire consequences than he cared to think about right now.
“What?” Arthur was incredulous now, his eyes wide and staring when Merlin chanced a glance up at the prince. “What on earth do you mean, Merlin? Bound how, by whom?”
“By magic,” Merlin said carefully, his head still bowed but his eyes locked on Arthur’s. “That night… in the forest. You died that night, Arthur, right before my eyes. But something brought you back.” My magic, he thought silently, but could not bring himself to tell the prince that part of it. That would surely sign his death warrant, and suddenly Arthur looked angry enough to make Merlin wonder if maybe he’d already said too much. But still he plowed on, “It was… I think it might have somehow done something to us. ”
“Done something?” Arthur was quiet for a long moment, and Merlin let him work it out for himself. Then, “… No,” Arthur said, quietly at first and then again, louder - “No!” He slammed his fist down on the table; the sound made Merlin jump, and his heart began to race. He wasn’t sure which of them was responsible for it, or if it was both of them at once, but his heart sped along all the same. He felt short of breath, and shook his head.
“It’s not a bad thing, Arthur - you’re alive because of it, you -”
“No!” Arthur shouted again, and for the first time Merlin was truly frightened of him, of the anger and despair he could see mingled in Arthur’s eyes, and of the shock and hurt coursing through his veins.
Then Arthur turned, looking straight at Merlin. His face was livid. “How dare you suggest such a thing. Get out of here, Merlin.” Merlin took a step back, but stood his ground, until Arthur advanced on him, arms waving in anger. “I said, leave me alone!”
Merlin did as he was told the second time, slipping out of the room so quickly that he could scarcely remember doing it; he stood for a long moment in the corridor, his heart still beating a frantic rhythm against his chest.
He didn’t know what exactly he’d said to make Arthur react like that - of course Merlin knew that any sort of magic was forbidden, but even that couldn’t explain Arthur’s anger as well as he’d like. Arthur had seen magic before, had even told Merlin of its evils. But he’d never reacted with such anger before. Not when it had saved his life.
He made his way back to Gaius’ chambers slowly, taking deep breaths and trying to calm himself - and Arthur. But he could still feel his heart racing with anger, and when he finally came to the physician’s workroom he walked right past the old man and into his bedroom, careful not to slam the door as he closed it. He lay on his bed in the waning light of evening, and wished he had thought of something better to say.
*
Merlin knocked, tentatively, and then poked his head into Arthur’s room.
The prince was sitting at the table, facing the fire with his back to the door. There was a goblet and pitcher beside him; Merlin was fairly sure they did not contain water.
“My lord… Do you need anything?” he asked carefully.
Arthur didn’t move, even at the sound of his voice. “Merlin.” A pause. “I don’t require your services tonight.”
But Merlin simply could not take any more. It had been a week - a week of this, of Arthur brushing him off or only speaking to him long enough to say things like, “Polish my armor,” or, “Bring me my boots.”
He slipped the rest of the way into the room, shutting the door behind him. He let out a breath - Arthur stiffened, clearly having expected Merlin to leave. But before Arthur could get another word of dismissal in, Merlin spoke.
“Can’t we talk?” Merlin hated it when Arthur was angry with him - all week he’d wanted nothing more than to make things between them all right or, if not that, at least better, somehow. But how could he do that when Arthur kept dismissing him as soon as he’d come?
“We have nothing to talk about.” Arthur was clearly as stubborn as he was ill-mannered and rash.
“Yes, we do,” Merlin said, secure in the knowledge that he could be just as stubborn as Arthur, if not more so. “You can’t keep ignoring me forever.”
Arthur snorted, as though to say that yes, he could. Merlin shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably, but not about to leave the room until they’d gotten at least a few things out in the open.
His tenacity appeared to eat away at even Arthur’s resolve to stay silent, eventually. “Fine, then,” the prince said. “Talk.”
Faced with the prospect of Arthur actually agreeing to listen to him for the first time in a week, Merlin suddenly found himself devoid of words.
Not one to be stopped by something so mundane as not knowing what to say, however, Merlin plowed on. “I just wanted to say that I’m… I’m glad you’re all right.” He paused, shifting uncomfortably. “I mean, I’m glad you’re alive, Arthur. Even if… if something strange is happening to us, you’re alive and well and you should be thankful for -”
“I know it was you,” Arthur said suddenly, as he shifted in his chair and stood, pacing a bit. “I’ve been thinking on it a great deal this past week, and I think you’ve been responsible for quite a lot since you’ve arrived in Camelot.” Arthur stopped and finally looked over at him, his features deceptively open, and although he didn’t seem overly angry, Merlin still felt the distinct stirrings of fear and dread in the pit of his stomach. Something about that look in Arthur’s eyes just set him on edge.
His mouth opened almost against his will, even as his mind continued to race frantically in circles like a frightened animal, devising excuses and just as quickly dismissing them as absurd. “I…”
“Don’t deny it,” Arthur said.
Merlin didn’t.
For a moment then Arthur’s face worked, as he perhaps realized once and for all that it had been Merlin. Perhaps his surety hadn’t been enough. Perhaps he’d needed Merlin to truly confirm or deny the accusation. His silence had apparently been enough.
The prince turned away, looking into the fire once more. Merlin watched the outline of his jaw in the firelight, the way the flames seemed to soften his profile. “Can it be broken?” The words were barely a whisper, but Merlin heard them clearly enough.
“I don’t think so,” Merlin said quietly.
Before him, Arthur clenched and unclenched his fists. “What would happen,” he asked, his voice deadly calm and quiet, “if you were to die?”
Merlin felt his heart begin to race; in front of the fire, he saw Arthur cringe and shift before the prince’s gaze swung around to capture his. “What would happen, Merlin?”
“Then…” Merlin swallowed. “Then you would die, as well.”
The silence that followed was nearly palpable - the only sound was the popping of the fire and Merlin’s pulse racing in his ears.
Then, finally, Arthur spoke again. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”
“I - ”
“I’ve always been my own man, Merlin. I’m the prince, and someday I’ll be the king. I can’t rely on anyone. No one. I have to be my own man, and now you’ve made me… you’ve made me yours. You haven’t the right! How could you do that to Camelot - to me?”
Merlin cringed, feeling as though he very much wanted the stone floor of Arthur’s chambers to swallow him up and leave no trace. Something cold and hard had settled in the pit of his stomach, and it was making him feel sick. “But I saved your life! Is it really so bad?” His argument seemed so small compared to Arthur’s rage, only ocean waves beating upon the rock-hard shore of Arthur’s anger. Merlin was afraid that he’d be beaten to pieces, smashed against those rocks, but he couldn’t allow it. What would become of Athur if he did?
“Of course it is!” Arthur roared, his cheeks flushed with rage as he rounded on his manservant, his outline angry and red-tinged in the firelight. “You’ve bound me to you forever, and not even with chains that I might hope to break! I can’t even tell my father, because he’ll have you killed. I’m trapped, Merlin, trapped and I will never be free again. How dare you.”
Merlin’s mouth opened but he could find no words to say, nothing that might assuage Arthur’s rage. Arthur looked at Merlin, and his eyes were filled with nothing but hatred. “I wish you had left me there to die. I was free, then. And now I never will be. You’re so selfish, Merlin. You’re nothing but a selfish, cowardly sorcerer, poisoning my life and I wish I’d never met you!”
Both of them were angry now, hearts racing and minds on fire. They each knew they were irrevocably linked, bound until the end of this life, and that nothing could ever change that. And at that moment, when Merlin’s heart broke, Arthur felt it as though it were his own.
“Get out, Merlin,” Arthur said. “Get out before I have you thrown in the dungeons for the rest of your miserable life.”
Merlin got out.
And it was when he was on the other side of Arthur’s door, with his back to the smooth wood, that he came back to himself and stood, for a small eternity, feeling something wet on his cheeks and his heart racing in his chest and he wondered, truly wondered, how it could still be beating.
He spent the rest of the afternoon wandering aimlessly about the castle, stopping in secluded corners to try and clear his jumbled mind before failing and moving on. It was well after dark when he found himself back at the door to Gaius’ chambers, and by the time he’d passed the threshold he knew what he had to do.
“Gaius,” Merlin said quietly, as the old man looked up from his dinner, “I think I’ve done something terrible.”
“What is it?” Gaius asked, and for once his voice held no exasperation or scorn, only genuine worry and that, Merlin thought, actually made it worse.
He bowed his head and told Gaius - told him everything, from beginning to end. The court physician sat there as Merlin told his tale, silent for the whole of it, until Merlin stopped speaking with a sort of half-sob and could only end with, “And I’ve ruined everything, Gaius - how am I supposed to face him ever again?”
“Oh, Merlin…” There was movement, the sound of a stool being pushed back and then there was a hand at his shoulder, warm and reassuring as best it could be. “You’ve done something, indeed,” Gaius said slowly, carefully. “Arthur is angry because it was magic that saved him. You know how he feels about magic, Merlin,” he continued, eyes boring into Merlin like they could see to the heart of his thoughts. Merlin nodded guiltily. “He feels betrayed that something he believes to be so evil has saved his life, and bound it to yours without his consent.”
“Well I couldn’t have very well asked him!” Merlin said, his voice sounding too-loud in the echoing room. “He was dead, Gaius - dead, and I don’t even know that I could have stopped this from happening, myself.”
“I know…” The hand on Merlin’s shoulder squeezed, gently. “And I think you did the right thing.”
Merlin could only hang his head. “And now Arthur knows what I am.”
“Yes,” Gaius echoed thoughtfully, “he does. But he won’t tell his father. The worst it seems he’ll do, for now, is dismiss you as his manservant.”
Merlin’s stomach clenched at the thought. Much though he hated having to serve Arthur day in and out at the prince’s beck and call, he’d grown used to it, somehow. He was comfortable with it, in a way that he’d never been comfortable with much else. The thought of losing that - of losing Arthur - weighed heavily on his mind, and in his stomach.
Gaius seemed to understand Merlin’s silence; he patted the boy on the shoulder and gently pushed him in the direction of his room. “Go to bed, Merlin. Get some rest. We’ll talk about this more in the morning.”
*
But it appeared that Arthur would not dismiss his manservant, not even over something as earthshattering as the revelations he’d experienced last night. First thing in the morning, before the sun was barely more than a half-disc above the horizon, there was a knock at Merlin’s door. The warlock roused from sleep slowly, and had just sat up in bed when the door opened and Gaius’ head appeared.
“It would seem,” Gaius said, and Merlin couldn’t miss the note of irony in his voice, “that Arthur has need of you. Now.”
But while Arthur had need of Merlin’s services, it became instantly clear that he did not feel the need to speak with him, or even really acknowledge his presence at all, aside from giving him a few curt orders and turning his back. Merlin stood with his back to the door, feeling trapped in the prince’s rooms as Arthur stalked over to the window and leaned on the stone sill, apparently expecting Merlin to carry out his orders of, “I want you to wash every square inch of this floor and then polish the table and bedposts, would you?” without complaint or conversation.
At that moment Merlin didn’t have within himself to argue. Silence reigned for most of the day, while Arthur ignored his manservant to do nothing in particular; later he went out to train with his knights, which left Merlin gasping for breath with spots dancing before his eyes before the afternoon was out. Kneeling on the floor with his head bowed and waiting for his heart to slow, Merlin wondered about the consequences of asking Arthur to go just a little easier on himself, once in a while. Once, he might have gotten a self-satisfied chuckle and an admonishment from the prince. Now Merlin wondered if Arthur could be trusted not to lock him away in the dungeon for speaking in such a way.
Day in and day out, it was the same. Arthur grew more and more distant; he spent most of his time with his knights, and when they were not practicing and drilling they were drinking and wenching. Merlin walked about with a continual sense of nauseous dread that the unsolicited clenching and racing of his heart at the most inopportune times did little to lessen. He would spend hours waiting for Arthur in the prince’s empty chambers, feeling like he was trapped in a place in which he no longer fit, and yet didn’t dare to leave. If Arthur returned to his chambers and Merlin wasn’t there to undress the prince and put him to bed, no matter the reason or the hour, he was likely to throw his manservant in the stocks the next day and then double his workload the day after that. The stocks weren’t so bad once in a while, but Merlin didn’t fancy spending the rest of his life as a target for rotting tomatoes. Though these days, he wondered if remaining Arthur’s manservant was really much different. In fact, it was possibly worse.
If Merlin was honest with himself, it felt like he’d been cut off from half of himself - he felt hollow and lonely, though he couldn’t explain even to himself why Arthur’s behavior might induce such a feeling. He knew that he had come to consider Arthur a friend - he couldn’t deny it anymore, not even to himself - but he knew now that he had been wrong to think that. And yet all the same, this feeling he’d grown accustomed to felt disturbingly like the way he’d felt for weeks after the raids on Ealdor, when he’d wake in the night and suddenly remember that Will was dead.
Merlin became a nameless, faceless figure in Arthur’s life, there only to please him and take punishment when the prince was not feeling congenial. Destiny began to sound more like a word and less like a cause. But no matter how Arthur cut him out of his life, there was one part in which Merlin would always and forever share. And it hurt all the more, feeling that part of Arthur within him, like a phantom pain from a limb that had been long since severed.
So wrapped up in his worry was Merlin that he failed to see the signs until it was too late. He didn’t notice the subtle trickery, the seething glances, did not even notice the concealed and bespelled daggers until the assassin was standing, weapons and intentions bared, ready to strike at Arthur before he could draw his sword.
And then there was no time left.
“No!”
Thought abandoned him and instinct took over and there, before the eyes of all the assembled court and the king himself, Merlin let loose a bolt that took down the attacker in one swift motion, the words flowing liquid from his lips and forming into a single, pure blue arc. The power hit the man square in the back and sent him reeling head over heels to the stone floor, coming to a silent stop a handspan from Uther’s feet.
For a moment time seemed to freeze, though Merlin’s magic had nothing to do with it. His body felt leaden, too heavy and not willing to respond to his mind’s commands. Merlin stood rooted to the floor, and a heartbeat later, all around him, chaos erupted.
Suddenly everyone in the room was yelling at once; almost before the command to seize him was out of Uther’s mouth, three guards had seemingly materialized out of nowhere; two sets of iron grips clamping down on Merlin’s arms. The deadly point of a pike rested at the hollow of his throat.
Uther shouted for silence, and he got it. The only sound in the great hall now was the clicking of Uther’s boots against the stone as he walked towards the sorcerer now held captive by his men. He pushed the man with the pike aside, moving to stand before Merlin and look at him with eyes as cold as the winter snows.
“Merlin, you?”
Merlin swallowed; his world had narrowed to his pulse racing in his veins and Uther’s cold, barren stare before him. The hands on his arms burned like fire. He could not even spare half a thought to realize that Uther knew his name, was looking at him like an old family friend who’d just turned up at the gate with a sword in his hand and vengeance on his lips.
“You are a sorcerer.”
It wasn’t a question; all the same, Merlin’s mouth opened, and out spilled a half-choked, “Yes, your majesty.”
Uther’s jaw tightened. “Then by the law of Camelot, you are under arrest. You shall be put to death at first light tomor-”
“But he’s just saved your son’s life!” Morgana protested vehemently; her face was white and her eyes dark as she swiftly approached Uther, skirts in her hands.
Uther’s expression was hard and unyielding. “Morgana, you cannot-”
“Wait.”
Merlin’s heart leapt for just an instant - that was Arthur; Arthur, who was wincing and leveling a glare at Merlin before he stepped forward to address his father. Uther turned now to look at his son, but his jaw was still set and his eyes were still hard. The king did not like being interrupted - or contradicted.
“I know he is your servant, Arthur, but I cannot give him special dispensation because of it.”
“Father,” Arthur said quietly. He glanced around the room, at the knights with their swords drawn, at Morgana and Gwen, standing ashen-faced and still. “I wish to speak with you alone.”
Silence. Then, “Very well.” Uther made a gesture; the room emptied in seconds, Morgana tossing Arthur a look that spoke volumes before sweeping out, and Gwen turning pleading eyes to Merlin as she passed. But Merlin could not answer what was in those eyes, not with anything in all the world.
And then the great hall was empty, save for the king, his son, and the guards with the sorcerer between them.
“What is it you would say in his defense?” Uther asked his son, his voice clearly stating that any argument Arthur could present had already been considered and dismissed.
“Nothing in his defense, Father,” Arthur said quietly, not looking at Merlin, “but something in mine. There is a confession I wish to-”
“It’s my fault!” Merlin said, interrupting the prince and rewarded for his outburst by two pairs of steely eyes turning to rest upon him. “It’s my fault, my lord, and the prince had nothing to do with it.”
Uther turned back to his son. “What is he talking about?”
“If you kill Merlin, you will kill me as well.” Arthur’s words were quiet and steady and Merlin could not tell, through the frantic racing of his own heart, if the prince felt anything at all as he said them.
“Explain yourself.” Merlin realized then that Uther thought Arthur was talking figuratively - perhaps he thought his son fancied his manservant. The idea was so absurd, the situation so very nearly too much to handle, that Merlin nearly broke down into hysterics. But now was not the time, and the inane laughter bubbling in his chest could not make it past the lump in his throat.
“I… I saved his life once, my lord,” Merlin said, before Arthur would have the chance to continue. “I did not know myself what I was doing - I tied his heart to mine, to keep it beating, and what my heart does, the prince’s will echo.”
There was a silence then, so heavy that Merlin thought the entirety of Camelot might crumble beneath it. He wanted to look away from Uther, to look at Arthur and see if he felt anything now, anything at all, but he could not tear his eyes away from the king.
“Undo it,” Uther said, quietly, and there was murder in his voice. “Undo your horrid enchantment and release my son this instant.”
Merlin felt close to tears. “I… I’m sorry, my lord. It cannot be undone.”
The look Uther gave Merlin then was something from a nightmare. His eyes filled with hatred, pure hatred of the deepest kind and it mingled with something else, something worse - betrayal. Merlin felt as though the ground had fallen away beneath him; he felt sick to his stomach and sick in his heart. Right then, he would have given anything, anything, to have been able to undo the past, to sever the tie between himself and Arthur. Anything, if only Uther would not look at him like that anymore.
But he could not. He closed his eyes, shook his head. “I can’t. I can’t.”
Beyond the king, Arthur was breathing shallowly, his mouth slightly open and his fists clenched at his sides.
“Then what am I to do?” Uther thundered, and for a moment Merlin feared that he would draw his sword and run him through, consequences or not. But the king only whirled to face first his son, then the sorcerer who had ensnared him. “Sorcery is evil and you must be put to death for your crimes, and yet I will not condemn my own son for the wickedness which is yours.” Uther paused for breath, his eyes wide and his face pale.
“The dungeons, then,” he said at last, his voice heavy as he passed judgment on the traitor before him. “I condemn you, Merlin, to the deepest dungeon to live out your life in chains. You will be kept under guard at all times, and you will be fed only enough to keep you alive. I fear,” Uther said, and turned away, “that is the worst sentence I can pass, if I am to save my son.” He looked to Arthur, then spun to face Merlin once more. “May you rot in every hell there ever was, boy, if you should be the one to take my son to his grave.”
*
True to the king’s word, Merlin was more than half-dragged down far too many steps to count; they had to be near the entrance to the caves beneath the castle when the guards finally stopped. The corridors here were dark; they were far below the earth and no light or fresh air ever reached here. The third guard, still carrying the pike set at Merlin’s back, now also carried a torch that threw flickering shadows against the walls as they threw Merlin into the cell where he was to live out the rest of his days on this earth.
Cold iron was clamped about his wrists and ankles, and he was left alone in the dark. The door to his cell was heavy and wooden, with only a slot in it to give him food and water. It was not large enough to fit more than a human hand, at best.
Merlin heard the key turn in the lock and felt as though his destiny had been truly sealed, once and for all. But the dragon had been wrong, so wrong - bound to Arthur Merlin might be, but not to stand by his side. No, he was bound to live out his days below the earth, chained as the dragon was, forbidden his death and his freedom.
For the briefest of moments, Merlin could remember all too clearly the day he had stood on the precipice of the dragon’s cave, listening in horror as he asked Merlin, would he not prefer it if Uther were dead? Should he not let the king be killed, let Arthur take his place? Should he not hate the man that had hunted down and killed his kind, the man that had forced him to live in fear?
And, for that brief moment, Merlin imagined what things might be like now, if he had let those things happen, if he had not tried to stop the Uther’s would-be assassins that day in the woods. Might he then be free, right now?
But it didn’t matter - nothing mattered now but the cold and the dark around him, and the thoughts in his head that were to be his only company. Merlin laughed then, a hollow sound that was eaten up swiftly by the stone of his cell. He could go mad in here, he thought, with naught to talk to but himself and nothing to occupy his mind day in and day out.
Gaius had come to him, at first, and Gwen too. Merlin had been sure that Uther would have forbidden it, had he known, but the guards had not stopped them from talking to him. They had spoken with him through the slot in the door; they had spent time with him and told him of the world that had once been his. They told him that Morgana was livid, that she and Uther were no longer speaking and she was spending more time away from the castle than within it.
Merlin wondered if the king blamed him, then, for stealing both of his children away.
But eventually, the time that Gwen and Gaius had to give him became less and less as what must have been days passed into weeks and life in the castle went on. Time lost meaning for Merlin; he was brought one meal a day, stale bread and tepid water. Enough to live on, nothing more. He didn’t know how long it had been - he’d stopped counting his meals somewhere after thirty. He became accustomed to the constant gnaw of hunger in his gut, used to the cold that seeped through his clothes and into his skin from all around him.
At first he had talked his throat raw, reciting everything he knew forwards and backwards and forwards again. He repeated aloud every herb Gaius had ever showed him, told the walls of his cell their medicinal properties and where they could be found. The darkness swallowed up his words until he forgot them, until one day he found that speaking had become just too much work, more than he had left in him, and he fell silent and let the cold darkness close around him.
In time, the only connection he had left with the world above was the beating of Arthur’s heart. No matter their distance or the layers of stone and earth between them, nothing could sever that tie; Merlin would still jerk into awareness as his heart quickened with Arthur’s exertions, still wake all too often with his body trembling and needy. Visions of Arthur haunted his fractured dreams, the prince proud and angry and ever-distant, always just out of reach.
But Arthur was alive, and as long as he was alive then Merlin’s sacrifice was not in vain. It was the beating of the prince’s heart that kept Merlin eating, and the thoughts of Arthur that kept his mind, little of it left though there was, alive.