Weep You No More Sad Fountains - Chapter 6
Weep You No More Sad Fountains
Chapter 6
Truth
“Why did you do all this for me?' he asked. “I don't deserve it. I've never done anything for you.”
“You have been my friend,” replied Charlotte. “That in itself is a tremendous thing.”
Charlotte's Web, E.B. White
There was no light in his cell, and the door which was the only sensible access to the outer world, the hinges of the metal were frosted with a dazzle of rust, the wood rotten looking however sturdy as in it were still an oak, and was bolted from the other side.
At times Merlin thought there were two locks.
There was no sound in his cell; he thought that maybe he could hear his breathing, but the air was so thin, or rather his lungs were shallow at their fleshy walls, that his breathing was silent.
Shackles bound his wrists, an uncanny similarity to the door in appearance. Upon them, chains that were somewhat clearer, however not cleaner, fettered him to the wall. The chains held his arms at such an angle that binding his ankles would be inappropriate and unnecessary; so Merlin was left to crouch, on his knees, his breeches frayed at the hems, and bloody stained at where they made contact with the ground.
Merlin had been stripped of his shirt, instead given a dress of scars and cuts, bruises and scratches to litter his once clear skin. Merlin let his head fall forward, not because he had lost dignity, but because he had lost hope.
The cuts on his lips sent a pleading sensation in the form of a sting to his nerves, however the call for help went unanswered, and the slit was left to bleed in sorrow.
Merlin thought he might be able to handle the cold, that his body would become so well acquainted with its chill, that the friendship would at least make him indifferent to the arguments; but the stench of dirt, and that which assaulted his body, was something most unpleasing: the grime could infect the openings on his body, thus breeding a child so ill-favoured, that the surrounding areas would become black with shame and destroy themselves; however he couldn’t find himself to care about that, or his current situation, only how he came to be here plagued his mind.
A sound.
A tear.
What hurt Merlin the most and taunted his mind, like the rats gnawing at his food, deliberating placed in front of him but just out of reach, its purpose not to satisfy, but antagonise a reaction and lust for it, was the last sighting and recorded memory he had obtained of the King’s face.
Disbelief.
Shock.
Pain.
Bewilderment.
These were among many emotions screaming on the King’s otherwise silent face at the time he knew.
Merlin had such hopes for their future; creating a peace so magnificent it would be holy, and that when Merlin deemed the time to be appropriate in manner and necessary in experience, only then would he tell his King.
He did not like to keep the truth from the King, for he knew that with each day, each passing of the sun would the King’s hatred and disgust in him grow -- these feelings would not come from the truth, Merlin believed, but from the delay of its impact, making it consequently deeper.
Oh how he loathed Fate now! How he abhorred it with a passion so diminished in its defeat, that the consequence of the circumstances made a being tired, and desperate.
How he wished events could have been unravelled with his disposition, his dexterity!
Merlin had thought of that imagined moment every day. It was the thought that was with him in every sense, it was the ghost which calculated and catalogued the King’s expressions as to may be his reaction to such news.
What Merlin didn’t realise was how close that ghost was to his heart.
No longer an anticipating spirit was it, but a vengeful poltergeist now. Oh, how it bit and hit and struck Merlin’s mind, grabbled at his heart and taunted him with a face that he would never see, and that the face’s last memory of him would be of a realisation of betrayal, with Merlin’s chance for redemption stolen.
A sound.
A tear.
Merlin thought that the moment of realisation would be by his hand, by his control; that he and the King may be alone in someplace, that the time, manner and resting of words would be to his approval, or in such a state to lessen the blow Merlin would inevitably strike. Merlin lay in thought upon his bed many nights, wondering how to communicate the truth to his King, and who by now, had no doubt to be his friend.
Merlin wished to tell his friend a truth that would unfortunately distress him due to a nurturing defect, but he always had hoped that due to their time together, Merlin may be able to be a candle almost to Arthur, to take him by the hand and lead him to the, maybe blinding, but saving light.
However, Merlin was not given such an opportunity to bestow Arthur such a motion.
A sound.
A tear.
Oh, how the King would loathe him now! The blow was dealt with all its mighty strength, but Merlin had been stripped of the chance to drop balm where he had wounded. Instead, Merlin would not be surprised, even expected, that the King would grow in resent of him, maybe until it was ugly and black, that would seal his kin’s fate.
Merlin suspected that the pain’s power he had inflicted came with their time together. Merlin was aware that the longer he waited for an opening, the deeper the knife would penetrate; his temperament just forbade that he think of a time of if he waited too long.
After all their time together, all their shared and exchanged trials and tribulations: those of beastly beings, vicious vendettas and frenzied friends, would create a cushion for the King to support him on when Merlin told him something so intimate, so secret and so sacred, that the King’s reaction would not only affect his perception of the gift in its entirety, but also his feelings toward Merlin.
A sound.
A tear.
The King would not come to save him.
Not now.
There can be no place for magic in Camelot.
XxXxX
The air was shining the sun was so bright, and yet a gloom seemed to linger in its depths that day.
A meadow is where the event took place, a classic plain of drying grass and a lonely stream discarded by God at the side.
Merlin was guiding the King’s horse at the front of the pack, the noble complimenting his men’s accomplishments with a new peace treaty, another one to add to their list.
Merlin trudged on, smiling sweetly, selflessly.
But then this cloud, previously mentioned dear reader, seemed to be moving, and upon closer inspection, Merlin confirmed a positive conclusion.
The grey dust then swirled and twirled until a figure could be seen within it.
Morgana.
And as soon as Merlin caught her gaze, as soon as the dirt was banished from his eyes to allow him to see a somewhat more clear picture of his surroundings, the wind grappling their clothes, it vanished.
But in its place was a beast unlike any other.
Its face was devilish, the eyes red and filled with blood, the iris wild, as well as intelligent. Around this head was a mane; a close resemblance to a lion. The body continued in this fashion: large, heavy, and the beasts’ veins bursting out the tight skin. However no tail of a lion did it possess, but a scorpion’s weapon, bright with blood and ready to strike.
If the creation was left as thus, Merlin thought maybe the encounter would have been smoother, however after pleading for freedom, the beast had obtained wings of a bat: muscles agile and a display of deftness in movement.
The perfect killer.
And when the beasts’ saliva dripped onto the ground, its growls shook the earth and it advanced.
What happened next was a series and sequence of battle cries from both human and beast. There was death of fellow good knights and Merlin was left helpless, cast aside by the King in hopes of preventing an unnecessary casualty. So Merlin watched, while the beast raged its task and performed it with furious finesse.
It devoured its prey whole and left no clothes, bones, or possessions of the prey behind.
Merlin knew the outcome if he didn’t intervene, bloodshed staining his hands already. So, while praying that nobody could allocate his actions, and hoping the frenzy of battle would distract eyes, defeating the beast more important than a servant’s whereabouts, Merlin reached for the nearest sword and enchanting it with light, made it fly directly through the beasts’ heart, blood spurting on the other side.
Silence fell.
The Manticore fell.
The sword fell, the heart still pumping slowing.
Now dear reader, understand that Merlin knew the probability of getting caught, however, also understand that the King’s life was more important than his secret.
The knights cheered, thinking maybe the sword was from one of their own efforts, the more ambitious ones already boasting it was them, and a slight dispute was already cracking.
But when Merlin met the King’s eye, there was no relief, only pure distilled astonishment and stillness of breath.
The dust gathered once more.
It entrapped and encased itself around Merlin.
And in his daze, as his heart pumped slowly, sharply, a sore throb piercing inside, Merlin saw darkness next and knew no more.
And here he was, chained to a wall, beaten and broken, Morgana’s laugh resonant in the silence.
A sound.
A tear.
Merlin had lost his only friend.
And it was all his own doing, he sincerely believed.
XxXxX
Maybe days had passed, Merlin did not know, for he had no time instrument to certify this, nor even the position of the sun.
Suddenly the rats in the cell all dashed at once for a far wall. A strange sensation of ominous degree overcame Merlin and he felt his heart start and stammer.
A man’s cry.
Merlin’s head instinctively whipped to the sound, his breathing shallow.
Another cry, a muffle, the drawing of a sword.
Merlin’s eyes were wide in fear: continued sounds, approaching him closer were that of the guards and neighbouring men to keep him still were dying, the crashes, the subtle beatings, becoming closer and more distinct.
Then a silence; a silence that was deafening.
Then suddenly the door to Merlin’s cell blasted open and there, in the dim candle light, was not a solider sent to kill him, nor a vengeful sorcerer.
Merlin’s eyes went immediately wide, salt rimming the bulbs, his breathing irregular to balance his gasps,
Arthur.
His King was standing before him, chainmail dim and coat of arms damp with dirt, the dragon still gold, but without the golden sheen the original thread bestowed.
His King’s hair was gently attached to his forehead, said area of skin frowned in the aftermath of battle, casting shadows upon his face where they shouldn’t be. The strands and locks of blonde were damp with sweat, thus were of a darker shade, thus giving him the appearance of a mad man; this illusion increased by that of his ragged pattern of inhalation, no doubt there were still a sensation of urgency within him that only comes with approaching doom, entering a place so forsaken it clung to the skin like a plague.
Merlin could not see his eyes, not until he raised them.
Merlin knew not what he felt in those moments, but unadulterated sensations of gratitude.
No breath could Merlin find, for there was no air to breathe.
His King’s eye was of a tried temper, downcast and dark, tried and ready to be done, however there was a spirit within that would not quit until his task was accomplished with maximum yield, it would not leave unsatisfied.
However this determination changed almost instantaneously upon regarding Merlin’s condition.
A troubled glaze washed across his pupils, the black absorbing that of Merlin’s trampled and bust body. Confliction Merlin identified, with the sense of pain due to lack in punctuality. However this was soon masked by a hardened countenance and one that approached Merlin with a steadfast fixture.
Merlin let a sound of wet breath escape him again, sensations overpowering and overwhelming in his King’s presence!
‘Sire,’ Merlin brokenly whispered, ‘why are you here?’ A battle of confusion waged war in Merlin, that of self-loathing and an apprehension as to why the King would be in the presence of someone who had lied to him.
‘Shut up, Merlin’ was the distant reply he received. The voice was heavy, the voice was thick.
As Merlin desperately clung to a sane composure, the King brought forth a key and unlocked Merlin from his burdens.
He was there to catch Merlin as he fell, his body weak from lack of use and nutrition. With the King’s arms around him, Merlin felt how thin he himself had become.
Where the King touched his skin, it felt drily moist, gritty with dirt and dried blood, but it was sweet and burned so beautifully on contact.
The King, with haste unparalleled, lifted him, but Merlin cried out in protest at the pain.
‘I-I can’t!’ he wept, his legs’ bones warped and the muscles limp.
Upon this exclamation, the King took Merlin’s hand and wrapped his arm around his shoulders as to support him, as so Merlin could lean on him as he walked.
They then proceeded on in this fashion once a comfortable pace was set.
Merlin feared that his discomposure would probably spark some sort of disapprobation from his King, but he was helpless as to prevent it.
Such raptures surmounted him in those moments! Such sensations of esteem and gratitude besieged his every fibre!
Merlin bit his lip as to prevent further sobs; however, his spirit was locked in its goal for release.
There’s nothing Merlin could ever say, no, nothing he could ever do, to make Arthur see, how much he meant to Merlin. Through all the pain, the blood they bled, despite this lie -- he’d never said goodbye.
And now Merlin knew, just how far he’d go…
Arthur should not fear his inadequacy; he should fear his light!
In those moments, Merlin felt such a bond to this man, such a drawn sensation that it ripped through him to be placed in the other with such intensity and vehemence in its speed and velocity, that he believed no other had felt such ways as he.
And if this was wrong, and he was given the evidence, then Merlin was convinced that he had never breathed, and the tears that streaked his face in elation repressed were not human material.
XxXxX
They were in the neighbouring forest by now, pasted the territory of Morgana’s abandoned castle grounds.
There was a glade in the forest, a quaint patch of grass amongst the ferns, leaves, creeping plants, oaks, beeches etc. And there was a horse, pleasantly, but what looked urgently, attached to a tree by a kempt rein.
It seemed perfectly fine.
The sunlight was also able to cast his glee upon the patch, and it was here that Merlin found himself.
After being able to walk without assistance, the King reclined his aid and went forward to attain his horse; however the impression that compressed Merlin’s heart was unyielding, the only antidote of this sweet symphony Merlin feared was answers.
His sobbing had not subsided, and his limping didn’t seem to attract attention from his guide. When they were in the glade, Merlin’s spirit could no longer be contained; yet he feared provoking a beast within the King if he was careless in his delivery, and suspected the justification for silence in return. But the call could not be ignored.
So Merlin cast a plan; combining instinct with caution, and addressed his friend.
‘You came alone?’ Merlin feared that maybe the King would mistake his touched astonishment for something else.
The King’s back remained large and fixed, ‘Yes,’ was the curt reply Merlin heard in front.
By now the King was doing his next occupation which he carried out perfunctorily: that of checking his mare.
However Merlin’s voice could not be restricted in this silence, however tentative it was; it needed some verbalisation of reassurance that he was not hated by someone he cared so dearly for. Merlin spoke again, not being satisfied with the result of blankness with trying to see if there were any marks of scars where he had injured thee: on his face or his eye, both were expressionless, his manner and decorum that if Merlin were a stranger.
However the tension did not excite the latter, could not support it.
‘Arthur!’ Merlin suddenly exclaimed; his legs no longer able to walk, so he staggered to a halt; his voice breaking with fissures of emotion, the torture of silence and disregard felt deeply.
The King stopped his actions at this.
He paused, and this moment of decision was the longest Merlin had ever known.
But then the King faced him with such a vulnerable expression, such a pleading eye; a direct and cutting sign of the damage dealt; Merlin only hoped the spirit within was not so immune to repair.
What precise consciousness they mutually experienced...
The King was silent, Merlin’s voice so longer found.
But then, ‘Why--’ his King began, ‘Why didn’t you ever tell me?’ and it was from the exposed volume, the tired delivery, that Merlin’s doubts were replaced with something much more striking: he had feared the King’s wrath, however, he was met with his friend’s suffering.
There was a clear expression in the entirety of his features, every small detail creating the larger picture of how Arthur seemed to be experiencing pain that his friend had lied to him, or at least withheld this truth from him, no doubt intensified by their time together.
Merlin’s mind immediately panicked while his heart immediately lunged to comfort him, however bound by veins; so many words he needed to express with such little preparation.
‘I wanted to.’ Merlin simply spoke, voice small.
‘But?’ his friend gently pushed, his eyes glazed, making the iris’ less bright but more vivid, bottom lip pouted in his aching pain.
Merlin wished to eradicate all such feelings; such illusions his friend may have developed that he wasn’t worthy of being told, that Merlin held the truth from him in spite, that Merlin didn’t consider him with any lesser cherishment than Arthur bestowed him now.
‘But you’d have chopped my head off.’ It was a pathetic chance for humour, for the depth of the meaning was too realised.
‘Are you so sure?’ Arthur voiced, knowing Merlin’s answer would be negative but obviously needing that complete assurance his friend didn’t think of him so low.
Merlin gave him that.
‘No...’ a hoarse, almost silent response.
‘Then why didn’t you tell me?’ Arthur now seemed to be at the brick of his distress and Merlin knew he would have to rise to such levels to bring him down again.
Absolute honesty could only follow.
‘Because I didn’t want to put you in that position.’ Merlin spoke with passion at last, hushed and broken, unable to continue with living if Arthur didn’t understand: understand that Merlin did not do this to vex him, but to protect him.
Arthur understood.
Understood that if Merlin had told him sooner, he may have not been ready for such a weight to be given to him, the possible confliction with putting his friend in an evil stage as would his Father had; even if he had accepted Merlin, then he would have dabbled in hypocrisy: allowing a sorcerer to live while the law banished the use of it from others.
Oh time, thou shall untangle this not I, ‘tis too hard a knot for me to untie.
Silence.
And what hurt Merlin now was how he couldn’t decipher Arthur’s looks.
Until, ‘That’s what worried you?’ escaped his mouth, partial surprised by Merlin’s confession, partial surprised by something else.
Merlin felt a weight lift from his shoulders, and he gasped at the speed at which it was removed, the balancing of pressure painful in the most delightful of ways.
But then Arthur approached him, and Merlin was silent again.
The King was so close to him that he could not move, for his gaze restrained his muscle.
And what a gaze as was emitted by the King! One of ultimate communication and bearing of soul.
‘No more, Merlin,’ he ended, ‘No more secrets.’
Merlin nodded, so very thankful.
But, upon realising that this very sentence inspired Merlin to want to exclaim something different, Arthur turned, and signalled for him to ride with him:
‘Looks like we’ll have to share this one.’
XxXxX
Several days later, Merlin found himself and Arthur patrolling the outer boarders with the Knights on rumours of a supernatural kind: whispers in the night around the boarding villages, children screaming from nightmares and cattle behaving violently who were once docile. Gaius suspected spirits; Merlin did also, which didn’t help his growing anxiety. If the cause was spirits disturbed, then they could all be in mortal danger, and the process to pass on these beings could be a long and difficult one, and if fate would deem so, blind to them until it was too late. The only comfort to Merlin right now was the gentle ebb of the horse’s motions as it went back and forth, and even then, this did not calm him, only prevented his lamentations of his active mind from increasing into the almost frenzied.
Once they got into the dark forest’s deepest parts, Merlin noticed a shrine of sorts. It was placed within a small valley, with ribbons of cloth and woven things strung from string like laundry. The atmosphere of the place, the very air, was still and unwelcoming; no sound seemed to penetrate the valley rocks.
Merlin told Arthur profusely that they shouldn’t be there, that it was sacred ground to the druids and that, although it was very possible the unleashed spirits came from this place, the answers would not be here, only danger; they would have to find another means of communication to the being. But Arthur turned down Merlin’s request of leaving: he respected Merlin’s judgements, but since Merlin did deliver the discourse with hastened breath, Arthur thought there was some agitated influence behind Merlin’s words. Which was the complete truth, but it wasn’t the anxious kind of a scared boy.
One of the Knights found a little cave somewhere in the middle of the valley’s side, while Merlin silently chanted in his head for a clear future.
Again, Merlin objected to entering, it would be defiling the ground and could do more harm than heal, but Arthur laughed slightly, and proceeded into it; therefore, naturally, all followed.
However, once all inside, the entrance to the cave was then blocked to them by a shaking quake that made rocks absorb the light.
Soon, boisterous remarks lifted from the Knights, teasing each other of being frightened of what was within, some poking the others with the torches, which they had attained from the valley also, much to the distain of the one under the torment.
Throughout, Arthur was still, looking beyond himself, and Merlin noticed this change in position, in posture.
Suddenly, a figure of light appeared to them as a man, who wore white sheets of the purest silver on a rock, his figure bathed in a somewhat heavenly glow despite the warm washes of the flames. Once the pleasantries of drawn swords was pasted, questions asked if he did this and if he knew a way out, all was answered with this simple sentence:
‘You have sinned against many of our kind, Arthur Pendragon, and until you repent for such actions, you will remain here, or perish as justice.’
With his old, torn voice echoing from the stones, the man vanished as Arthur swung his sword to his head in anger, a bellow to accompany it.
Merlin saw Arthur’s quick breathing, and knew instantly two very potent things: the Knights knew nothing, and Arthur knew all of what the man meant. The King seemed to be fretting to himself within his mind, his eyes half-blinking rapidly, his teeth barred brokenly, his eyes shifting slightly. No-one but Merlin saw this, for he was at an angle to see Arthur’s almost profile, while the Knights deliberated amongst themselves.
Merlin wondered what sins Arthur had committed to unleash such a consequence.
Arthur then gripped his sword with a vice like grip, his leather glove tightening and turned around. Upon establishing there were enough torches amongst them to be shared in pairs, that would also last for another two hours approximately, Arthur split them into partners, to go down each tunnel to try and find an exit, then call from this main chamber where all the arms extended from.
Arthur ended with Merlin, and they shared a look, Arthur obviously aware of Merlin’s lively imagination, his need to help, but he pressed on, Merlin having no choice but to follow, unless he wanted to be left in darkness.
XxXxX
One hour had probably pasted, Merlin did not know, for he had no sun to see, no candle to estimate.
Currently, he was holding the torch as so Arthur could try to scrape through a pile of rocks which he insisted could be moved by mortal hands.
His gloves lay beside him, discarded and dirty, small dust like fragments of copper filth sprinkled here and there, as they lay on the cold brown ground.
Merlin looked upon Arthur with much sorrow, sensing that whatever happened here, or somewhere else, it gave the King much distress, for his arms were not steady as they pulled and yanked at the rocks as he crouched even lower, praying for an opening.
In the silence, save for the flame’s dance and Arthur’s actions, Merlin thought now was as good a time as any.
‘Arthur,’ and the King did not even flinch at his name; Merlin did not know whether to think this a blessing to continue or a sign to be still, but he progressed nonetheless, ‘what happened?’ Merlin did not need anymore, for Arthur knew what he meant, they had been in each other’s company long enough to sense emotion and decipher each other’s use of tone.
But still Arthur did not answer, and for a while he slashed at the rocks with vigorous, strong motions, until he must have cut himself from the effort, because he leapt up and staggered back with a dash and a wince. Merlin immediately approached him, ready to help, but Arthur brushed him off, and Merlin knew to keep his distance.
The silence was prolonged; Arthur’s shoulders board and tense, and Merlin looked on him with, not pity, but sympathy, a yearning to understand, to be let in, as Arthur fiddled with his scratch, until he deemed it too irritable to continue.
Arthur then spoke, with bated breath, and by his tension, Merlin knew to listen, the way his throat contorted graciously with the swallow,
‘Back when I was younger, many years before I met you, Merlin, I was sent on many,’ the discourse seemed to be greatly painful to his King, ‘missions, to help the effort of purging the land from magic,’ Merlin’s figure grew still with that mention, and Arthur seemed to sense it, making the proceeding text all the more difficult and raw, for they had a new secret between them, ‘We would... we would go to suspected villages, interrogate those we thought responsible, or we’d just lay siege to a druid camp,’ Merlin was very still, chest compressed, ‘and when we charged on them, I was to lead,’ Merlin looked on at Arthur, understanding Arthur needed to communicate this, and he felt blessed, that Arthur could trust him with such information which seemed to curse him so; as Arthur looked down, or at anywhere expect Merlin, he concluded with, ‘and we burned the men as we burned the tents, the houses, nothing was left to stand; no mercy was to be shown.’
Arthur was so ripe with the recollections, his lips full and eyes blue, filled with oceans of thoughts, but when he did look at Merlin, his composure snapped instantly, ‘Do not look at me like that Merlin! What did you expect? While the King slaughtered innocent people, did you think his son would be lavishing in his delights, while the world around him was burning in hot flames?’ Merlin did not flinch under Arthur’s eruptions, for he knew their cause, but Merlin could not answer, not yet, not because he was disgusted, but because he was overwhelmed.
Arthur then snatched the torch, and went away.
Merlin gasped, once Arthur was movements away.
Merlin was speechless because he felt Arthur’s suffering and he understood it: he had lived under Uther’s reign long enough to see how he handled such issues, and feared discovery every day. Arthur knew this now, and to have a personal connection with what he had to kill, much more than likely made the already poignant guilt sting even deeper within Arthur.
Merlin knew his actions were not his own, but commanded and expected of him: Arthur had no escape. And for a few moments, Merlin was stunned into thinking just what it must have been like; how Arthur had to create pretence while it must have seemed that the world around him, all the suffering, all the cries, all the stricken faces... while it must have seemed the world was coming to an end.
Merlin knew the Arthur now was not the Arthur then, both of them in fact, had changed dramatically, so he did not harbour any ill-will towards his King, he did not blame him; he only wished Arthur knew that. Arthur was not alone anymore; he was not lonely anymore, because Merlin was with him now.
So, before the light faded, Merlin briskly stepped after his King.
XxXxX
Another hour had passed, maybe, for the flames on the torch were becoming dimmer every moment.
They were sitting on opposite rocks in another dead-end, Arthur finally falling on the stone, close to hopeless.
No-one had called with triumph of an exit.
Merlin looked at his King, who, from the weight of the reminding of his actions and his past self, slumped in his sitting.
Merlin wondered if Arthur’s shoulders physically ached sometimes.
‘I think talking helps,’ Merlin said, quietly, but not tentatively, as he was before.
‘I know,’ Arthur said with a gruff, moving his hands together slowly, for it was Merlin again in possession of the torch.
‘Then why won’t you talk to me? It’s only me, you and the walls here,’ Merlin placed carefully, for he knew there must have been more to the story than Arthur had revealed, and Merlin needed to know everything, because he knew he could not completely take the pain away from his King, but he knew he could share it.
Arthur smiled sadly at this, but something changed within him, maybe it was the ink in his eyes, or the shallow of his brow, that permitted a thought for further talk, the final revelation.
‘We didn’t just burn them, Merlin,’ he spoke, low in pitch and grave in tone, ‘We killed the women and children too,’ Merlin felt as if his lungs were being crushed by the walls around him, and Arthur seemed to be sunken in his mind, lost in thought, ‘I asked... I asked so many times if they could be spared somehow, but my father would always refuse my request, and I was left, left with hearing them scream.’
Now that Merlin knew all, that there was blood on Arthur’s hands he could never hope to be cleansed of, Merlin now knew that there was a part in Arthur, a devil, that gnawed at Arthur’s mind, and called him a monster.
Merlin thought that was all, and the King would give him time to reflect, however he continued, but not in the fashion he expected, ‘You once said that I could be a great King, Merlin,’ and they shared a gaze now, because they both sought it, and what vision Arthur was, still so powerful in appearance when he was at his lowest, ‘do you see greatness in me now?’ The statement was said with such sardonic nature, that it cut Merlin to hear Arthur so evidently brimming with self-loathing.
But Merlin did not exclaim loudly, nor did he leave Arthur to himself: he spoke softly, and honestly, because he had to: to see the stone set in Arthur’s eyes, to see the thorn twist in his side, from the sleight of hand and twisted fate which he was plagued with, Merlin had to,
‘No,’ he said simply, which sparked sad interest in his King, ‘I see something better,’ Arthur was all frowning curiousity, and Merlin hoped this could communicate his faith, he breathed, ‘goodness.’
Arthur seemed astonished, then overwhelmed by some feeling, because he actually smiled wetly, which inspired much happiness in Merlin.
After a moment, Arthur spoke up, ‘It seems Merlin,’ and here, he smiled again as if thinking something ludicrous and ridiculous, shook his head sideways, then said to the silence, ‘I can’t live, with or without you.’
Merlin was filled with such emotion, for, although Arthur’s actions might to someone make them think that it was words said in jest, they were not: by his chosen words in themselves, the volume at which they were uttered and the weight in which his gaze placed on Merlin, the warlock knew them to be spoken with the purest of earnestness.
And if Merlin thought he was breathless, hands tied in tension, then he definitely was now, ‘You are a loyal friend, Merlin.’
And Merlin thought it rare, that he found himself speechless and breathless simultaneously.
Thankfully, Arthur spoke for him, on a new topic, pointing to the matter in question, ‘The fire’s almost out,’
‘Yes,’ Merlin started, then looking to the torch, ‘yes it is.’
And, when Merlin looked back, he silently startled at the fact he thought Arthur closer than he was before.
However, the intimacy of whatever possessed them vanished, when suddenly, upon the ceiling; great stones flashed then glowed, in a vivid light green, leading them to somewhere else.
They frowned at each other in quiet question, then followed the stones, and after a while, not too long, they found the exit.
They were permitted leave, the Knights already there.
And if, on the journey home, Arthur looked at Merlin more and longer than was strictly necessary, and if Merlin glanced his way, and caught him in his ministrations, and returned the sentiment, then at least they had the knowledge they went unnoticed by the others.
Chapter 7