Ariel 2/2
They went to war together for the first time six months into his reign, just skirmishes, on the Southern border again. Arthur was determined that he wouldn’t use Merlin unless he absolutely had to.
That was why Merlin was left standing and watching while they fought. By the time the battle was won, he had disappeared.
Arthur’s first thought was that he’d run away, but that was ridiculous, wasn’t it? He must have been ordered not to do that at some point in the past.
His hunt eventually turned up what looked like footprints left by bare feet in the mud. He followed them to a group of trees, and there he found Merlin.
Merlin, slumped up against a tree trunk, looking even paler than usual, with a crossbow bolt buried in his shoulder. He was poking at it curiously, wincing every time it shifted inside him, apparently oblivious to Arthur’s presence.
Arthur stood and stared for a moment, then knelt down next to him and stilled his hand. “Merlin?” he said.
Merlin turned to face him. “My Lord,” he said, in surprisingly measured tones, given his situation.
“What happened?” said Arthur.
“Somebody shot me,” said Merlin.
“I can see that, yes,” said Arthur. “You’d think after four hundred years you’d have learned to dodge.”
Merlin turned and glared at him. “May I speak freely, my Lord?”
“Of course,” said Arthur.
“You’re a prat,” said Merlin, then quickly turned his attention back to the bolt. Apparently having grown bored of playing with it, he grasped it as if to pull it out. Arthur caught his wrist again.
“No, don’t do that,” he said. “You’ll only make it wore. C’mon, get up. I find someone who can sort it out.”
----------
The physician who lived in the large village nearby, despite having offered his services when they’d passed through the day before, took one look at Merlin and refused to help.
“I only treat men, Sire,” he said. “I can’t help you with that.”
Arthur opened his mouth to protest, but the man was right. Merlin was different (though how the hell you could tell that just one look at him remained a mystery).
So he ended up crouched on the ground with Sir Gawain, combining their fairly rudimentary knowledge in an attempt to deal with it.
“You can’t do that much harm,” said Merlin, who had resumed his poking, as they discussed the best way to get it out. “It’ll heal, eventually.”
Gawain scowled at him, and pulled out his dagger. “We might have to cut your shirt off,” he said.
“No,” said Merlin. “I like my shirt. I don’t want you to cut it up.”
“Let him do it, Merlin,” said Arthur. Merlin relented.
Gawain raised his eyebrows when he saw the crest burnt into Merlin’s skin, but thankfully remained silent, just sat back and surveyed the situation.
Merlin poked at the bolt again, and watched with interest as his blood seeped out around it. He trailed his finger through it, leaving a long red line across his chest.
“Stop that,” said Arthur. Merlin looked up guiltily.
“Sorry, my Lord,” he said.
“Anyone would think you’d never bled before,” said Gawain incredulously
.
“Not like this I haven’t,” said Merlin. Gawain shook his head.
Arthur and Gawain their resumed their argument about how best to remove a crossbow bolt from someone without making things a whole lot worse, and the idea of going back and asking the physician for his professional opinion had just been proposed when Merlin took matters into his own hands.
He tugged the arrow out of his chest sharply, then let out a choked sound of pain, and said a few words in some language that Arthur hadn’t heard before (but the tone used for swearing was nigh-universal).
“I told you not to do that!” said Arthur, pressing his hand against Merlin’s chest to block to flow of blood, which was now considerable, practically pouring out of him. “Aren’t you supposed to do what I tell you?”
“I did,” said Merlin, gasping for breath. “You didn’t say never do it.”
“You complete and utter idiot,” said Arthur. He turned to Gawain. “Pass me the bandages.”
“I don’t feel right,” said Merlin as Arthur attempted to wrap a bandage around his shoulder.
“I’m not surprised,” said Arthur. “You just had an arrow through your shoulder.”
“Dizzy?” said Gawain. Merlin nodded. “Blood loss. You might be going to pass out.”
Merlin tensed suddenly. Arthur felt all the muscles in his shoulders bunch up beneath his fingers.
“What’s wrong?” said Gawain. Merlin remained silent.
“He doesn’t sleep,” said Arthur. “I… don’t think he ever has.” He glanced at Merlin, took in the fear on his face. “Don’t worry. We do it all the time. It’ll be fine.”
Merlin rubbed at his face and let out a little whimper. Then he relaxed.
“I’m glad you agree,” said Arthur.
“Sire, I don’t think he can hear you,” said Gawain.
Arthur leaned round to look at Merlin, then gave him a little shake. A few moments passed.
“He doesn’t sleep,” said Gawain flatly.
“No,” said Arthur.
“Not ever?” said Gawain.
“Not ever.”
“Sire, forgive me, but… what is he?” said Gawain.
Arthur tied off the bandage and sat back on his heels. He rubbed his hand over his face thoughtfully. “He’s… different,” he said.
“I can see that,” said Gawain. “But… how? What is he?”
“He’s… I don’t really know, to be honest,” said Arthur. “My father called him a spirit. But I don’t think I’ve ever heard him call himself that.”
“A spirit?” said Gawain, eyebrows arching upwards.
Arthur nodded. “Apparently one of my ancestors thought it would be nice to have a spirit bound to his will,” he said. “He’s bound to the Pendragon line. I… inherited him.”
“He’s bound to obey you,” said Gawain. It wasn’t a question.
----------
By the time it was dark, Merlin was awake, and already on the mend (well enough that he had to keep being told not to poke at the wound in his shoulder through the bandages).
He sat a little back from the campfire for a long time, wrapped in a blanket, staring wistfully at his shoulder.
Arthur and his knights were sitting around their campfire (the campfire of the elite) while a squire shared out stew when Gawain stood up.
“Do an extra bowl would you, Gideon?” he said. Gideon obliged. Gawain turned and walked over to Merlin.
The spirit looked up at him, silently questioning. Gawain jerked his head towards the campfire. “Come on,” he said. “Over here.”
Merlin got up slowly, wincing as he unthinkingly put his weight on his left arm. Gawain held out his hand to help him up, but Merlin just ignored it.
There was a prolonged, uncomfortable silence as he sat down with his stew. Most of the men there had seen Merlin in action at least once, and all but a very few had heard stories.
Merlin seemed oblivious to all this, content to sniff at his stew with great curiosity. The conversation slowly resumed around him, with no-one giving him much attention beyond the odd nervous glance.
Merlin took a small, tentative bite of stew. Arthur thought he saw a fleeting look of disgust cross his face, and he seemed to be right; Merlin lowered both bowl and spoon into his lap, and sat back a little.
Eventually, after looking at Merlin and frowning for a few minutes, one of the knights spoke up.
“Aren’t you going to eat it?” he said to Merlin.
“I don’t think so, no,” said Merlin.
“But you must be hungry,” said the knight.
“Not really,” said Merlin.
“He doesn’t eat,” said Arthur. “Not properly.”
“Oh, really?” said the knight. “Good God! Don’t you get hungry?”
“No,” said Merlin. “Not really.”
“He doesn’t sleep either,” piped up Gawain.
“Good God!” said the knight. “Don’t you get tired?”
“No,” said Merlin simply. He didn’t, Arthur realised, seem at all embarrassed or uncomfortable with the situation. But then again, he must have been answering questions like that for the past four centuries.
There was a prolonged silence. Then the knight who’d spoken before cleared his throat. “If you aren’t going to eat it,” he said. “Do you mind if I have it? I’m starving.”
Merlin decanted his stew nearly into the other man’s bowl.
The evening somehow then culminated with him telling a long story about an incident in the reign of King Aethelstan. Something about a war between Camelot and Northumbria, during which both sides had resorted to sorcery, but the Royal Sorceress of Northumbria was madly in love with Aethelstan… Arthur rather doubted there was any truth, but Merlin told it surpisingly fluently.
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“Have you been a storyteller?” he said, as they prepared to go to bed.
“Storyteller,” said Merlin. “Advisor. Siege weapon. Firestarter.” His eyes met Arthur’s for a second. “Lover.”
Arthur backed away from him.
He spoke to Sir Gawain the next morning (it was grey and windy and drizzling slightly), stood next to him while he saddled his horse.
“Why did you do that?” he said. “Last night?”
“Why did I do what, Sire?” said Gawain.
“You know damn well what I mean, Gawain,” said Arthur.
Gawain sighed. “It’s… not right, Sire,” he said. “What’s been done to him. He’s practically a slave.”
“Not practically,” said Arthur. “He’s a slave. I won’t deny it.”
Gawain turned to face him, hands holding his saddle steady. “Could you free him?” he said. Arthur nodded. “Will you?”
“I don’t know,” said Arthur. “Maybe.”
“Why not?” said Gawain.
“I don’t know…” Arthur trailed off and swallowed. “I don’t know what he’d do. I mean, if you’d seen what he can do, when he’s ordered to fight… if he turned that power on Camelot…”
“Do you really think he’d do that, Sire?” said Gawain.
“I can’t be sure,” said Arthur. “He once said he wouldn’t, but I don’t know if I can trust him. I know he acts like he likes me, but, well… he… I just don’t know. I mean, I think he’s honest, but…” he trailed off, and turned to look at Merlin, deep in conversation with his horse, over his shoulder. “I just don’t know.”
Gawain resumed his task. “Yes, Sire,” he said.
----------
“So,” he said to Merlin in his rooms that night. “When you said lover, who did you mean, exactly?”
“Well,” said Merlin. “Queen Anna, a century ago. Another queen and two kings who ordered me never to tell,” he stopped abruptly, as if he’d been planning to go on.
“But Anna didn’t?” said Arthur.
“She was widowed young,” said Merlin. “She never made any secret of it.”
“And she was one of the Pendragon line?” said Arthur. “Or was that her husband?”
“She was an only daughter,” said Merlin. “But she married her cousin, so both were, technically.”
“I see,” said Arthur. He stared at Merlin, and Merlin stared back. And he very nearly brought it up, brought up freeing him, but he didn’t. He just sat down and took off his boots and muttered something about having someone fetch a bath.
After that he forgot all about it for quite some time.
----------
Because after that, everything went very much to hell.
They went to war again only a few months later. A larger war. A war they couldn’t win alone.
----------
Merlin had begged him not to make him fight.
I hate it, my Lord. I really do. Every time someone dies at my hands, it’s like everything inside me ties itself up in knots, and I feel all their pain… please, my Lord.
Arthur just turned away, and ordered him to fight in the battle in a low voice.
Just think of it this way. If they win and take Camelot, more people will die. Then they’ll move West from there, and other cities will fall, and even more people will die. Could you really watch that happen knowing you could have stopped it?
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The two of them stood in the middle of the battle, watching as Merlin stretched out his hand and brought the enemy to their knees, wind and rain and fire and fire and lightning.
Arthur had forbidden him from unbinding himself as he had done for Uther. It scared him too much. He wanted Merlin real and human-shaped at all times.
So they watched with Merlin in human form as the opposing army hastily retreated. Arthur smiled, but Merlin didn’t. He had his head tilted to one side, watching them go sadly.
“What’s wrong?” said Arthur.
Merlin turned to face him. “Do you order me to tell the truth?” he said.
“Of course,” said Arthur.
“You were supposed to be the one to free me” said Merlin, surveying the nigh-deserted battlefield. “Instead you made me into this.” He tore his gaze away, and his eyes met Arthur’s. “Please, my Lord. It’s been so long.
Arthur thought his heart might have broken a little at that. “I-” he said. "I want to. I do. But... I want to keep you."
Merlin's face fell. "I understand, my Lord."
Arthur turned his face away for a moment, then looked back. He stripped off his glove, reached out, took Merlin’s hand. “I don’t know how," he said. "How do I free you?”
Merlin smiled. “All you have to do,” he said. “Is tell me to be free. That’s all.” He squeezed Arthur’s hand. Arthur hesitated, took a few deep breaths, and squeezed back.
“Go, Merlin,” he said. “Just… be. Always.”
Merlin smiled.
Then he just melted away. There was no ceremony, as they’d been before, when Uther had ordered him to fight. Just… one moment he was there, hand in Arthur’s, real and solid and almost human, and the next, there was just empty air.
He let his hand fall back to his side. “Merlin?” he said. He thought he might have felt a breeze brush his face in response. But maybe he was just imagining it.
He took a deep breath, rubbed the tears out of his eyes, and turned away.
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He met Gawain just a few minutes later.
“Merlin?” he said. Arthur didn’t answer, just marched on past him, let him figure it out for himself.
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Three weeks later, after having returned to Camelot, and having dealt with the aftermath of the war that almost happened, after having explained that their most effective weapon was gone for good (and had never been a weapon in the first place), he spent a day rifling through books in the library, and then a day riding out to a clearing in the forest, miles outside the city, with a wineskin and a goblet.
The stories he’d found said that men used to come to places like this, make a request of the spirits, then leave them a cup of wine, poured out onto the ground.
“I don’t want anything in return,” he said aloud as he filled up the goblet. It felt rather strange, speaking to no-one. To the air. “Just… Merlin, if you can hear me, this is for you,” he said. He raised the goblet up in the air in a silent toast, then tilted it, let the wine drip slowly out onto the ground. “Thank you,” he said. “For everything.”
He thought, as he walked away, that he heard the wind pick up behind him, but it might just have been a coincidence.
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Almost a year later, the wind blew the window of his bedroom open in the middle of the night. And as he got up to close it, he heard a sound behind him, and soft thud, like someone jumping to the ground.
He smiled.