Fic: Pendragon Red (1/4+Epilogue)
Title: Pendragon Red (Part 1/4+Epilogue)
Author: talesofyesac
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 30,583
Characters/Pairings: Merlin, Arthur (gen)
Warnings/Spoilers: Character death (minor), violence
Summary: Camelot is overrun by a group of magic users after Uther refuses to negotiate with them. Oddly, the only things they seem to want from Camelot are Arthur... and Merlin. His father dead and his kingdom conquered, Arthur, oblivious to what they could possibly want with his servant, attempts to protect himself and Merlin while somehow finding a way to escape before they reach their unknown destination. Meanwhile, Merlin tries his best to stop Arthur from unraveling completely while also endeavoring to understand what part he and Arthur play in a prophecy involving towers, dragons, and blood sacrifice.
Author’s Notes: This story was written for the journeystory mini big bang (a story of at least 10,000 words). It takes place before Fires of Idirsholas (2.12). Also, a million thanks to stbacchus, who is the most wonderful beta in the world. All remaining mistakes are my own.
Link to the Fabulous Art Made for this Story: http://chosenfire28.livejournal.com/237916.html
The people are starving.
Just this morning, Merlin saw the body of a small child, lying in the streets. The parents may have already died, the poor little thing then venturing out, desperate, looking for any sort of food. Maybe not. Maybe she’d just collapsed on her way home, her body giving out despite her parents’ best attempts and frantic prayers… because everyone is praying these days, whether they know it or not.
The eerie tendrils of death’s fingers, curling up in a scent and tickling at his nose, had made Merlin shiver when he passed the body, though he’d been able to do no more than pull his neckerchief up over his face and turn away. He might have liked to bury her, once. It doesn’t matter so much now, though-not when she’s neither the first nor the last that he’ll see today.
He can’t bury all of them.
“What took you so long?” Arthur asks with no real bite when Merlin slips back into his room, quietly latching the door behind him. The click echoes, filling the room so easily that it could almost be empty.
No. Not yet. They’re still here. Precious little time is left, and he can see no reason to rush what they do have.
Arthur may or may not see it that way, but the way he holds himself-stiffly, too afraid of making a mistake-sets the whole feel of the room on edge. Merlin never liked to think he so completely took his cues from Arthur before, but in this case, Merlin can feel the tension-the stifling, suffocating anxiety-right down in his flesh, digging in like a particularly persistent fishhook.
“We can’t hold out much longer,” he says, avoiding Arthur’s gaze-and his question-while he drags himself over to the table and reaches for the pitcher of water. Arthur shoots him a small frown, but he says nothing about the fact that Merlin seats himself across from Arthur at the table and drinks water brought for the crown prince.
Instead, he just crosses his arms and looks away. “You think I don’t know that? It doesn’t make things any simpler.”
The water rushes down Merlin’s throat, slamming hard into his empty stomach; he can feel it settle, eating up the space there, sloshing against air, and as much as he’d like to claim that it helps, he doesn’t feel any better. It’s only tepid, but, somehow, it feels icy against the flesh of his stomach, chilling him straight through. Or perhaps that’s just the cramping in his gut, begging for more than water-begging for food that they just don’t have.
“What are we--?”
“I don’t know.”
Of course he doesn’t know. Everything he could know to do, they’ve tried over the last three months that they’ve been under seige. So many good knights have been lost trying to drive off the sorcerers. So many people have been killed trying to smuggle food into the city. None of it helped. Arthur had, eventually, suggested negotiation when it became clear force wasn’t going to save them, but Uther hadn’t been willing to hear of it. There would be no negotiating with sorcerers.
And now there is nothing left to do.
Nothing that will save them, anyway.
Leaning forward, Arthur rests his elbows on the table, propping himself up until he can press his forehead down to his hand, fingertips reaching up and scratching at his hairline, digging in and winding between the locks until he’s got handfuls of golden hair, pulled taut enough that it must hurt.
“Arthur-“
“You know what will happen if we concede.”
Yes. God help them, yes. “I didn’t say you should give in.”
No. If they give in, if they let the force circling the walls of Camelot have what they want, it will almost certainly be Arthur’s life.
That’s something that Merlin isn’t even willing to suggest they pay.
But Arthur would. He will. There’s nothing else they can do, no one else that can possibly aid them. And they’ve tried - they’ve attempted to call for outside help.
If only it had worked-if it had been different. But everything is blocked. Even Merlin. Messenger after messenger has tried to sneak out of Camelot, and they’ve all been caught, their dead bodies tossed back inside the city walls as the most gruesome answer the invaders could manage. There’s impenetrable magic at the gate, and how did Uther not see this coming? How could he have believed that all those he’d wronged would never join together under the banner of that wrong? The enemy of my enemy….
Morgana joined them almost immediately. The memory of the druids in her mind, undoubtedly, the sting of Uther’s betrayal-Merlin can hardly find it in himself to blame her. Hardly. Somehow, he does still find the motivation. He understands-he does, but how could he possibly accept it? She betrayed them all. She has to know Arthur could be killed, and even if she hates Uther, she can’t hate Arthur, has no reason to….
“Prince Arthur.”
Once, when Merlin had been younger, he’d had a particularly disturbing nightmare. His mother had held him, rocked him, telling him that if he closed his eyes and couldn’t see the bad things, they wouldn’t be able to see him either. It’s a gentle fiction for children, obviously, but what he wouldn’t give right now to have it be true. If he keeps his eyes closed, maybe he won’t see the men walking in through the door, bringing news he doesn’t want to hear. His mother had smelled like fresh soil that night, if he recalls correctly, and the skin of her arm had been soft under his fingers as he’d huddled in her lap. It could be that way again. Him, his mother, and somehow Arthur could work into it too.
Of course, this time, he never closes his eyes.
It’s gratifying to see that Arthur whips around to face the sound, equally as startled-yet, still, somehow whipcord sharp and ready. It’s a skill, one he has that Merlin doesn’t-this ability to be ready in a moment, to command.
“Your father wishes to see you.”
He knows what it means-knows that his father intends to make one final stand, and probably die trying. His face tightens, lips flattening, teeth clenched together so hard that Merlin has to wonder if his jaw will still work when he finally relaxes. He nods, though-there was never any doubt that he would. Hands balled, spine straight, and every single muscle in his face pulled impossibly tight-he still nods.
Merlin feels his eyes finally flutter closed. It doesn’t smell like soil or summer, doesn’t feel like his mother. These demons can’t be chased away-not when he’s the one who’s supposed to do the chasing. He’s failed. Failed badly.
And so starts the beginning of the end…
------------------------
Camelot falls on the first day of the new week. Washday. Gwen would have been cleaning sheets, rather than doing her best to keep the dying alive. Arthur should be training. And it’s the day Merlin would have gone out picking herbs for Gaius… if Gaius had lived.
Don’t think of it. Don’t, don’t, don’t-
There is absolutely nothing remarkable about the day. A bit of a haze hangs in the air, but it’ll probably burn off around midday, scorched out by the sun rising over the detritus of the failed crops and the bodies tossed outside the city walls. It’s warm enough, too. Nothing unusual.
“You should go down into the square,” Arthur tells him tonelessly once the men bringing Uther’s message have left.
“No.”
That earns him a bitter, half-there smile. It doesn’t look right on Arthur’s face-so out of place in how he turns, watching Merlin sadly, but maybe-yes-just the barest bit thankful. “What use is there in having you die with me?”
Use? All the use in the world. Just not the kind that can be explained. Gaius is dead. Morgana has deserted. Gwen, as a nurse to the dying, will probably be taken when the castle falls. Arthur is the last person he cares for that he has any chance of staying with, and if that means that Merlin dies too, then what of it? At least he’ll die with someone rather than being left alone without a purpose. “I’m not leaving.”
A simple nod and a sigh. “I can’t very well make you. But I wish you would.”
He doesn’t, Merlin knows. He just thinks he should. And for that reason-because so many royals wouldn’t have that kind of concern for their servants-Merlin will never leave.
Arthur is all that is left of the life he knows, but even if he weren’t-even if there were others-he still can’t imagine abandoning him.
Instead, he just rises from where he’s standing behind Arthur, watching his prince stand stiffly at the window, looking out at what could be his death. There’s no hope of ignoring the iron line of Arthur’s shoulders-the tension there-but he does manage to cope well enough to move to the wardrobe and get Arthur his doublet.
“When are they opening the gates?”
“They already have.”
God. Already. But it’s silent. So silent. This is their last stand-Camelot’s army rushing out against their attackers, really expecting to lose and barely hoping to win. And, somehow, it’s quiet.
Is everyone dead already?
Arthur shrugs into the jacket when Merlin holds it up for him: there’s comfort there, in the familiar, and for just a fraction of a moment, it feels like someone should apologize.
This shouldn’t be how this goes. This isn’t destiny.
Well, to hell with destiny. And Merlin almost wants to apologize about that too.
“If you’d just go into the square with everyone else, Merlin-“
“They might spare me. I know. They might not. Doesn’t matter. I’m not leaving you.”
A sharp movement, and then Arthur is facing him-when did his hands land on Merlin’s shoulders? Such a hard grip, bearing down, as hard as the tension in Arthur’s jaw when he peers up at Merlin seriously, sadly.
“Whatever happens-“
I’m thankful. I hate that you wouldn’t leave. I’m glad you’re here. You’re the worst manservant I’ve ever had, but I wouldn’t want another. You’re a friend, and I thank you for that.
What he means to say-it could be anything, and maybe it doesn’t matter exactly what it is, or that he’ll never know: the door to the room slams open, smashing into the wall, deadening any further words. And Arthur? He hardly even looks shocked. If he feels surprised, he doesn’t play it openly like Merlin, jumping and spinning around. His hand is still on Merlin’s shoulder, holding, even when people start streaming in, grabbing onto him, yanking him forward, away-
“Arthur!”
Smack.
“Arthur-!”
Blinding, blinding pain in his face-he gasps, can’t breathe, white hot-dragging along him, all the way down to his feet. He drags those too, fights against the arms pulling him-hands everywhere-how did this many people get in? Were the knights overrun so quickly? All dead-it doesn’t seem possible. There’s jostling everywhere, though-proof that they have been overrun, before Arthur even got to talk to his father-but he can’t fight all of them, and he’s lost sight of Arthur. Is his name being called? Yes, Arthur, there, ahead of him in the mass of human bodies and sweat-incanted words-as they’re both dragged forward. Well. He’d expected to be killed by now. He’s expendable. He’s not Arthur.
Maybe not. But when they’re tossed down to their knees in the throne room, he’s beside Arthur. Not positioned like a servant should be-behind Arthur or, more likely, dead already-but like an equal, kneeling on the cold floor. He probably ought to feel more panicked about this, actually. He should be thinking about important things-not Gwen’s smile, the smell of Gaius brewing, or the color of the sky on a crisp autumn day. None of that matters. Or it could matter the most. It’s impossible to tell at this point, and his mind is just skipping between it all, and, you know, he really likes that better than where it lands, suddenly fixing all thoughts on how foolish of a display he, Arthur, and Uther must make: Uther first, Arthur in the middle, and then he, Merlin, to Arthur’s right.
Arthur deserves to die in a more dignified circumstance than his father does. Nothing about this is fair.
I tried, Arthur, and I’m sorry.
Impending death or not, there’s nothing but shame in shrinking from it: better to look up into the face of the one who’ll deliver it. Oddly, it’s a rather unremarkable face-who is this man? He’s tall, perhaps middle-aged, with shoulder-length brown hair that’s just beginning to run through with gray. Sorcerer, Uther spits out, and, yes, that’s obviously true, but the make of his body-well built, broad shouldered, and fit-would hint at a physical lifestyle. He doesn’t seem like a druid. He doesn’t seem like a madman. He doesn’t even seem particularly pleased.
Looking down at Uther, he simply sighs, clenching his hand a bit tighter around the jeweled sword in his right hand. “I’m sorry that it had to come to this.” And he sounds sincere. How in the world is that even possible?
Beside Merlin, Arthur shifts uncomfortably.
Someone doesn’t know how to walk on his knees….
“Your kind is sorry for nothing-“
Uther should hold his tongue. Or perhaps not. He’s going to die. Might as well go out spewing venom. That’s vaguely disgusting. Some people-less embittered people-would like their last words to be something useful. Not Uther, though, and what surprise is there in that? His last words are bitter-they are entirely characteristic of the man people say he’s become since Arthur’s mother died. Fitting words. Poisonous words.
And God help him, those are his last words.
Merlin has seen death before. He’s even killed, but there’s something so entirely startling in knowing he can’t stop it now, or that, if he does, it won’t matter moments from now. Once, he could have stopped it-could have outed himself as a sorcerer just to save a man who’d have killed him for it. Not now, though. Now, whatever has been done-whatever curse these people have put on Camelot-he’s as hemmed in and suppressed as anyone else. His magic buzzes inside him, alive and well, but something stifles it. A sword swinging toward Uther’s neck doesn’t change that.
It’s still a struggle, though, sort of like a hiccup-involuntary, how he strains forward when the sword pulls back… but before Merlin can really think-before Uther can finish-it’s over. But God help them, it seems to last forever: the arc of the blade, singing downward, sunlight catching the metal and forcing Merlin to squint, and then the sick thunk as the blade sinks into flesh. Arthur jerks, rather like a fish on a hook, but Uther is slumping forward, body thumping sickly-a heavy sound, bones on wood-to the ground like a broken, discarded doll. Arthur-
Arthur’s eyes are closed, his breathing fast and shallow.
Arthur. Uther’s son. Uther may have been a substandard father, but he was Arthur’s father nevertheless.
Merlin can feel Arthur’s clipped breaths from where he’s kneeling, even if he can’t quite register it over his own nausea. Arthur-his face is covered in blood. His father’s splattered blood. And the blood from the severed head-Uther’s body-it’s leaking out across the floor, seeping under Arthur’s knees.
Nothing can prepare a man for that.
A thousand campaigns could never do it. Handing out death on the end of his sword would never teach it. There is nothing: this is his father, and Arthur’s covered in his blood.
Merlin hardly even notices that he’s tilted his head to the side, away from the man in front of them-always a dangerous thing, taking one’s eyes off the enemy-but how could he possibly look at anything else? Every splattered line of blood draws his gaze, and he’s gawking, staring at Arthur, trying not to see-and why is he staring?-the gore painted across his fair skin and up into his hair.
Is Arthur even seeing at all? He’s breathing his way through it, mouth closed tightly, probably afraid that if he opens it, he’ll taste blood. He probably will. Why is this happening? Why? Arthur-the blood is caked in his hair, up across his face, and a few more moments and it might be his own, rather than Uther’s.
“Arthur,” he murmurs, hating how the word feels slipping out between his cracked lips.
Arthur doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t move. It’s hard to tell if he’s even still breathing. And then… “Damn you, Merlin, for once in your life, be quiet.”
It’s a bit disturbing when insults like that become comforting. It is comforting, though. They aren’t gone yet. Oh, it’s possible that they’re going insane, but it’s better to let Arthur insult him like he’s always done when he’s stretched too thin to bother with manners. That’s Arthur; even if they’re about to die, it’s comforting to know that these people haven’t changed that.
The man before them murmurs something to one of the others at his side, so softly that it’s impossible to hear-if his lips hadn’t moved, he might not have spoken at all. Fascinating, at least in the same kind of way an executioner’s axe is fascinating. It draws the eye, and Merlin feels himself turning to look at him, neck cricking-he hadn’t realized how tense he’d gone while watching Arthur.
The man moves easily, with fluidity, turning to the second man briefly before his gaze slips back to Merlin and Arthur. Oddly, for a man who’s just killed one of the greatest enemies of magic, he seems to be strangely uninterested in Uther’s death. It’s nothing obvious, and Merlin is not always the best at reading the intentions of others, but a man about to kill them shouldn’t be turning deep brown eyes back on them in a look that is about the furthest things from murderous. No, it’s oddly… detached. Almost… respectful.
“It didn’t have to come to this, you know,” he says almost conversationally, lips quirking up to the side, smearing his right cheek up a bit higher. “I offered your father the chance to surrender. It was his choice to refuse. And if I were not certain that anything less than witnessing his execution with your own eyes would give you cause to doubt the reality of it, I would not have made you watch.”
Really? They’re going to have this talk while Arthur is kneeling in his father’s blood? Detached or not, this man deserves to burn if he thinks that’s acceptable. Judging from the hitch in Arthur’s breathing, he agrees.
Of course he agrees. It’s amazing he hasn’t gone insane yet from the stress of the situation alone, and Merlin can’t imagine how it is that he doesn’t move, not even to slump the slightest bit and maybe give his back a bit of relief. His arms were bound behind him at some point-probably about the time Merlin’s were, when they were being dragged out of Arthur’s room-but he holds himself straight up into those bonds, regardless of the way they so obviously are chafing at his wrists, rubbing them red and raw. Might as well make a match, though: his eyes are equally red, bloodshot from lack of sleep and stress. They’ve both been sleeping precious little, and Merlin doesn’t need to make eye contact to see the evidence again. The man before them must see it, though. And damn him, he did this. Does he enjoy seeing his enemy on his knees before him like this, exhausted and worn thin? Or does he want to see Arthur broken further?
“If he had simply allowed us entrance. The leave to negotiate-“
Arthur’s hands clench. “You came under a banner of magic!”
For the first time since they’ve been tossed to the floor before him, the man’s eyes spark in something resembling displeasure.
As quickly as the emotion came, however, it’s reigned back down, and though not gone completely, the man manages to take a deep breath and tuck his hands behind his back, presenting something closer to indifference. If his shoulders seem a bit higher than before, or if his upper lip has stiffened, that’s only to be expected, right? No one can completely hide what he feels.
No one can hide everything about himself either.
Maybe it’s a desire to deny his impending death that does it, but Merlin finds his gaze wandering over the man’s clothing. The man is dressed well. He looks a bit like Arthur does when he goes hunting, actually: he’s donned clothes of good quality, a shirt dyed a dark blue, v-necked and laced up. His trousers are even tailored, and there’s just no way he shines those boots himself, because the amount of work that goes into getting them to look like that-he’d never have the time. And Merlin? He knows exactly how long it does take, because Arthur, prat that he is, wants every tiny nick and scuff gone, and maybe if the idiot would stop getting so many scuffs-
Right. Clearly, he is going insane. He’s about to die. And he’s thinking about how long it takes to shine Arthur’s boots.
“You don’t know how hypocritical you are,” the man says simply after what must be nearly a minute has passed. Beside him, the men also in attendance fidget in what appears like pent-up emotion.
Probably not good emotion.
There’s about twelve of them in total. One, two, three, four… Merlin can’t keep track. His mind bounces back to the man in front of them, and the others just seem to fade into the background, blurring together until they’re a mess of well-tailored clothes and weapons-
Weapons that were never used.
He… should have noticed that.
They came to Arthur’s room, but they never drew their swords. He and Arthur were forced here, but it had been by brute strength and sheer overwhelming numbers. Did Arthur notice? Bit hard to ask at the moment…
Arthur. Right, Arthur. How much longer can he hold out? Already his skin is sinking to a sickening pallor. That’s his father he’s kneeling in. Who could blame him for losing his nerve now?
Arthur would blame himself, of course.
Of course. Because that’s Arthur’s logic, drilled into him by the same man he’s just seen die.
“I wonder if any man of prophecy would seem to live up to what’s been foretold of him,” the man continues, smoothing his hands thoughtfully down the front of his shirt, knocking away dirt, as he watches Arthur from under dark eyelashes. “I can see a bit of it in you, I suppose. Though, uniting all of Albion-that’s a tall task for a boy.”
“If by ‘boy’, you mean Crown Prince of Camelot,” Arthur grits out, “then I take your meaning.”
The man smiles. “Well, you certainly do have a sharp tongue on you.”
Arthur’s eyes don’t flicker down to the blood beneath him, even with it soaking through his trousers. Just keep holding on… though, Merlin can’t imagine what he’ll hold on to or what either of them can hope for at the end.
“I wish I could say the same of your mind,” Arthur snaps back.
If anything, that only makes the man’s smile widen: shadows leap in his brown eyes, dancing with amusement, and if Merlin wanted, he could count every one of the man’s teeth, which, remarkably, are almost all intact, even given his age. Yes, he must be something beyond just a sorcerer. Or, if he is a sorcerer, he’s one that’s paid well for his talents.
“Ironic,” is all he says before he’s turning to Merlin.
Don’t move. Don’t give him any indication that this is anything more than handleable. Do. Not. Give. Him. The. Satisfaction.
“Emrys.”
Well. He couldn’t feel worse if the floor actually had dropped out from underneath him. It hasn’t, has it? Ye there it is, still right there under his knees. Thank God Uther’s blood hasn’t seeped all the way over yet. It smells though, a little like iron, and he has always hated iron…
“You, I did not expect,” he says, right as he moves forward, stride long and confident. Carefully, he avoids Uther’s blood and body as he moves between Arthur and Merlin, circling around behind Merlin and coming to stand on his right side, half in front of him. “I thought something… more. And, yet, you fit.”
“Do you always keep your audiences kneeling in blood?” he snaps, raising his chin defiantly. To hell with the consequences. At this point, what’s the worst that can happen?
The man at least has the good grace to look a bit abashed: his brow furrows, and he glances over at Uther’s mangled body like he’s seeing it for the first time. For a moment, he only stares, blinking and then, finally, he seems to break free of whatever odd moment had washed over him, and he nods in the general direction of his men.
“Bring them to the courtyard.” Slowly, his gaze slips back to Merlin, hovering only briefly over Arthur. “We’ll talk more soon, Emrys,” he promises, just as his men’s grip materializes on Merlin’s arms, yanking him up alongside Arthur. If it had been that, only that, then maybe they would have had a chance, but never lowering his gaze from Merlin, the man produces something from his pocket-a bracelet, silver and thin, decorated with runes. Merlin’s magic is blocked already, held within himself, but spells like that-they are usually fixed on an object. An object like the castle. It’d hadn’t taken him long to figure that out-to see that’s how they were trapping his magic-but what good could it do? He needed his magic to sneak out of the castle-and he couldn’t access it while in the castle. There had been no getting out. He’d tried. He had. And Gaius-Gaius had tried to help him.
Merlin’s stomach clenches: Gaius had died trying to help him.
And now, when the man snaps the bracelet around his wrist, ignoring how Merlin winces and tries to twist away, Merlin just knows that the location of the spell has been transferred. The vile thing against his skin-it doesn’t burn, exactly, but it sort of itches, and he can feel his magic punch at it from beneath his skin. Nothing, though-it remains locked inside of him as the clasps on the bracelet fuse together in a burst of heat, leaving the metal smooth and unbroken. Irremovable.
Frankly, it’s a miracle that either of them remains standing-more of a miracle that Arthur doesn’t seem to even notice that someone has forced a bracelet onto his servant, though who can blame him after what he’s just seen? And the man must know all of that-really, there’s little doubt that he does, though his expression twists in something very like sympathy. “I truly didn’t want this course of action.”
It’s always possible that he’s telling the truth. But honestly? As Merlin is pulled out of the room, glaring back over his shoulder, he can’t help but admit that he’d very much prefer to believe the man is lying.
Part 2