Merlin fic: Warlock [2/2]

[aftertherain]

Part 1 of 2 is here



V. Take me up; cast me away

Merlin had forgotten how gruelling waiting always was. There had been no news and the footsteps of the guards remained dispirited, but the king had also yet to order his execution for getting Arthur killed. The worry consumed him over the course of days. First, in his corner where he traced one hand over and over the hollow in the water-smoothed stone; then when he recovered enough to stand, he paced the small strip of ground as far as his chains would allow, but could never seem to overtake his fears.

Help him, he let this thought ripple out to the dark corners of the caves and beyond, but no one was listening. Please help him.

Later, when Gwen appeared on the other side of the gate, breathless from running down the passageway, Merlin thought hers was the loveliest face he'd ever known. She didn't keep him waiting: "Arthur lives, but he's very weak."

The tension that had gripped him for days released him abruptly. With strings cut, he slid carelessly down the scabrous wall while Gwen sank with him and clutched awkwardly at his fingers through the bars. She kept apologising, explaining that she hadn't forgotten Merlin-had, in fact, tried every single day to come to him-but never succeeded again until now. It's all right, he said, and let her see in his face how much he had missed her too.

The fear that followed a close step behind surged back into his muscles. His tone was adequately flippant but the tremor noticeable when he managed to say, "I only knew one old croak who could pull off such miracles... I don't suppose the new court physician is named Gaius as well?"

"Oh, Merlin," Gwen chided, somehow making it an expression of exasperation and fondness all at once. "You may not believe it, but Morgana has a gift for healing." Buried somewhere under the fatigue and wonder in Gwen's voice was the palpable relief that despite all of Morgana's dangerous games and her inscrutability, she had not become a complete stranger to them. "I find that her care has done more for Arthur than any of the balms physicians have given him."

"Will they let me help him?" Uttered without thinking, and regretted almost immediately.

Gwen never mocked Merlin. "I shall tell Arthur you asked after him as soon as he wakes," she promised, and left before the guard who hastily devoured his full meal at the edge of the torchlight could no longer pretend to ignore her.

So Merlin waited for Arthur with more patience than he thought he possessed. He listened to the hushed words when one guard came to relieve another, hoping for word of the prince's recovery. Things had changed overnight. They were uncharacteristically tight-lipped. The waiting and the growing doubt tested his limits.

Until he was woken from a fitful drowse by a disturbance that rattled and reverberated all the way along the tunnels to his gates, the energy of the sound numbing his jaws and scattering the pebbles in his dungeon. It was, Merlin realised, what the roar of the Great Dragon felt like, this deep beneath the castle. The very earth seemed to writhe, rearranging itself. The foreboding noise struck fear into his heart. He clambered up and shuffled over to wrap his hands around the bars.

There were footsteps in the passageway outside. Striding with purpose towards the gate was the resentful guard who had never spoken more than two words to Merlin; Merlin forced himself not to back up into the shadows, and stood his ground defiantly. After all the battles and the seasons changing above ground, after his thoughtful deliberation on turning this moment into his only chance, it was anticlimactic that his jailer unlocked the gate and all his shackles without fanfare, grunting out at the last, "A horse is waiting. Ride for Ealdor at once."

The skies were beginning to lighten, a crescent moon descending towards the castle spires. He was escorted to the stables and left there. An awkwardly dressed stableboy came in from the outside to set a small candle on the ground. Gwen. He would recognise that smile under any guise. She enfolded him in an embrace, smiling still but trying to hide her red eyes under his chin.

"Should I be keeping an eye out for unconscious and naked stablehands," he queried by way of greeting, his hands unsteady around the shoulders of her dusty outfit.

"Why, of course not. Well … maybe one wearing a yellow dress. Hello, Merlin."

He clung to her and his knees almost gave way. He pressed his face to her forehead, and what he pictured in his mind was Ealdor burning to the ground, and Arthur, cooling body and waxy skin as white as his bed sheets. A whisper was all he could manage. "What's happened?"

"Merlin," and she gripped his arms tightly as if sensing his hectic thoughts spreading like wildfire, her touch anchoring him back to the ground. "It's Uther-the king has died."

It was not what he had feared, not what he expected. In that moment, Merlin couldn't find where his ill will for a tyrant who had taken so much from him had disappeared to; all that was left was a leaden weight in his stomach and the knowledge that if this hollowness was what Uther's death meant to someone without years of love and hatred for him intertwined, then Morgana had to be inconsolable.

"How-?"

A squadron of soldiers marched by outside the stables, and a few of the slumbering horses raised their heads and whickered. Gwen placed her hand over his mouth and tugged him behind a bale of hay. He stumbled this time.

From his crouch, he looked up through the slats towards the castle, wondering if Arthur was up training the men despite his injury and near death. The last vapours of warmth had barely left Uther's body and there was already a gaping void in the kingdom to fill. He wondered if the new king would allow himself time to mourn.

"I have to go to Arthur."

"You must leave now while you still can, Merlin." More guards hurried by outside, cordoning off sections of the city and shouting orders at the early rising men and women from the lower town to stay clear of the castle's main gate. A group of loyal knights were out for blood. Panic and unrest spread with news of Uther's death through the streets and marketplace.

Gwen pressed a cloth-wrapped bundle into his arms. Within were neatly divided rations of bread-generous portions in harsh times-and dried fruits for his journey, and soft shirts and a cloak for the cold nights ahead.

"Morgana wants you to take the mare. I've saddled her for you."

In the rushed and turbulent transition of power, with the kingdom at its darkest hour and daybreak nowhere in sight, Morgana and Gwen gambled with a little magic of their own to sneak Merlin out of Camelot.

Thank you, he said, even knowing words would not suffice. The risks they took for him didn't stop there: in the bundle, a heavier pack lay hidden amongst the food rations, one thing that didn't quite belong with the lightness of the rest. With trepidation, Merlin unwrapped the weathered skins to find the first book Gaius had given him. He was struck by a pang of nostalgia at the sight of the leather-bound cover-memories of the mishmash of spells that he tried saving lives with but rarely succeeded at, and the useless, soup-levitating types that invariably worked to perfection. God, he had been so young. All of his few meagre personal belongings had been destroyed shortly after Gaius's execution, tattered knittings and scarves from his mother incinerated and purged alongside all the years of Gaius's research and an entire library of medical references. The fire was impartial in its destruction.

"Gwen. It's impossible..."

"Arthur," Gwen offered, as if one word explained everything.

"But I don't understand." Why the undamaged book was in his hands now. Why Arthur had hidden and kept it safe all this time, when he should have been most amenable to burning anything that his sorcerer of a servant had touched.

"None of us do," she answered, her tone equally hushed. Of the three men who knew what transpired as Merlin awaited execution, Gaius and Uther took whatever words were exchanged that night to their graves. And as for Arthur-"You know as well as anyone that Arthur keeps his silence better than the dead."

Arthur alone would have failed to sway his father. But if Gaius had wangled Arthur's cooperation with reason, with logic and the potential of Merlin's unlived years, and together-one an old friend and the other, the king's flesh and blood-they had entreated Uther at his throne and bargained for Merlin's life...

"Go now," Gwen urged, interrupting his thoughts which led nowhere good. She kissed his cheek, and Merlin squeezed her fingers curled around his arm. "Don't look back."

* * *

VI. Dreaming

The firelight illuminated the figure at the table, its glow gentle when few things in this man's life tended to be. Arthur lounged in the warmth without a shirt, his side and shoulder wrapped tightly with bandages. He drank his wine, face pensive, an echo of the prince of years past. Another full goblet was drained too quickly, wine spilling down his chin and across the skin of his collarbones-the clinking of a ring against the goblet the only indication that the hand was less than steady. It seemed as if the sound would never stop.

Merlin let his hand settle across Arthur's shoulders, the touch fitting over the tensed body like a well worn jacket. The ringing quieted.

"Merlin. Are you truly here, or am I dreaming?"

A brief press of lips to Arthur's forehead kinder than the heat of the open fire, while Merlin's other hand wiped along Arthur's brow, checking for signs of the fever that plagued him still. Despite Arthur's protests the goblet was taken from him, and in its absence Merlin's fingers found their place in his hand. There, they lingered.

"You're dreaming," Merlin answered. Arthur closed his eyes, looking pained. "And I suppose I'm dreaming with you."

A soft sigh escaped Arthur's lips as he tilted his head back, revealing his throat in the firelight, the parchment-thin skin around his eyes creasing with pain at the movement. Riveted, enthralled, Merlin bent towards him, stretching impossibly slowly as if through molten gold.

"I see. Perhaps I should have listened to the poor chambermaid I scared off, and not imbibed tonight considering I'm now being punished to tolerate your foolish face even in sleep."

Merlin felt his lips twitch in a smile. "Perhaps."

"By the gods, Merlin-" Eyes opening, Arthur's mood shifted again, his humour turned wistful and disbelieving. "I see you as clearly as if you're standing right before me."

Merlin hunched down against the table's edge, careful not to tip over the goblet or ruin the barely eaten food, and placed both arms around Arthur's shoulders-feeling the tension in the muscles, tightly coiled, and wishing he could take on some of the burden. Arthur was now king of Camelot, truly alone in this vast war-torn land.

Like the shifting of the logs as the fire wound down, slowly and haltingly Arthur began to talk. Normally one gifted at inspiring courage and fortitude in his men with a simple speech, the thoughts that he confided to Merlin took shape with great struggle, as if each word were a battleground. Merlin let Arthur's voice flow over him, allowed the quiet stream of words to form:

"Before my father became king, he led his own troops in the wars against Vortigern. By all accounts he was a ruthless warrior and many good men died by his hands, but he did what was needed and put an end to five years of bloodshed. You see, my father-he'd always believed he would be struck down in battle one day. So it was that long before I killed my first man, when I was still a boy, he began preparing me in unequivocal and sometimes cruel ways to take over his throne."

"We haven't spoken to each other for some time now-"

Because of me, Merlin realised, stunned at the price Arthur had paid.

"-and I might have been suffering from feverish dreams, or so Gwen kept telling me. But for the past few nights when I'd been certain I would burn to ashes in my bed and not make it to morning, I could have sworn I felt my father's hand on my forehead. I heard his voice as if from a distance, telling me stories about my mother. The morning the fever broke, he was already gone.

He was poisoned, Merlin. While the entire court worried over my health and I lay incapacitated, of absolutely no use to anyone, the cowards who had pledged fealty to Camelot conspired to kill their king in the most execrable manner."

Merlin had heard rumours of Uther's brother and father murdered by those they trusted, in the same way-tragedy ran in the Pendragon blood. How abrupt the loss must be for Arthur; how fortunate for Merlin that as father and son teetered on the balance of life and death, Arthur was the one who walked away.

Arthur, Merlin said, when it appeared that Arthur had run out of voice. He knew. You didn't have to tell him what he means to you, he'd always known.

After a long time, when the fire had died out and embers cooled in the hearth, Arthur leant forward and rested his face against Merlin's neck-Merlin could no longer read his expression. A strange contradiction, that even this close to each other, with a gesture so intimate, it felt like pushing Merlin away.

* * *

VII. The lost days

Merlin was about as good at listening to Gwen as Arthur had been at listening to him. So, naturally, leaving Camelot immediately translated to something of a less urgent nature for Merlin. He had amends to make.

He thought for a second that he'd seen Morgana's silhouette pause in front of her window. With Uther's death, the storm raging inside her circled to a standstill, caught by the complex tapestry of vindication interwoven with sorrow. There was no telling whether the kingdom would continue slipping on what she had begun. He also thought he saw a crown on a head of blond hair striding down the corridor-Arthur.

But Merlin was chasing after shadows and mistaken each time.

And afterwards, he walked through the lower town, along the cheerless and mostly abandoned marketplace-none of the gaunt faces met his eyes and no one recognised him-and from the most impoverished quarters he doubled back towards the drawbridge. He lingered in the shade of the towers, venturing as far as the executioner's square-brazenly bold of him, to look upon the dark platform where the blood and magic of countless men stained the stones-and yet nobody spared him an extra glance.

Shortly before nightfall, violence erupted in the city square and lines of guards marched through the castle gates to quell the commotion. Merlin roused himself from this inexplicable stasis and prepared to leave the place he called both home and prison.

Two days later, Hunith dropped the clean linens she was hanging out to dry when she spotted the horse and rider in the distance. She ran through a startled herd of pigs and a field of tall grass to wrap her arms around a son she'd believed to be dead. She could not stop holding on tightly even when she pulled back to look at him, his thin bearded face and older eyes, while her tears flowed freely onto his torn sleeves. An afternoon's work of washing was wasted in the mud, trotted over by peevish piglets, and she didn't care in the least. She would have dropped anything, everything, if it helped bring her son home.

But the next morning-after a meagre bowl of gruel made somehow more satisfying when shared by two; after watching Merlin wordlessly dig a hole to bury a book; and after he touched the corner of her eye and asked her not to be sad-Hunith stood in the exact spot where the linens had landed in the mud and watched her son ride off into the distance. The village kids ran along the path following the faint hoof prints, their dirty feet stirring up dust that had barely begun to settle. She stood there for a long time until the slim figure on horseback disappeared completely into the dusty glow of the day.

Merlin followed the streams to the north, all the way into Mercia. The last of the rations Gwen had packed for him ran out a few days after leaving Ealdor, despite his mother adding to the reserve with a small amount of food she had stored away. Clusters of berries that grew overripe along the banks stained his shirt and fingers, but sustained him and the mare for several more days. Water from the small stream quenched their thirst, while the crooked trees, bent low with the weight of their fruits, sheltered Merlin from the worst of the elements.

It was around the time Merlin chose to risk veering from their water source for the possibility of meals in the outlying villages of Mercia that he first spotted them, beyond the sparse groves on the other side of the stream: wild horses galloping across the grasslands. The sight loosened something knotted in his chest. He unsaddled the mare, removed the bridle and the bundle from Gwen that was altogether too light, emptied as it was of the weights of book and bread. He stroked a hand down the mare's thick mane and whispered in the restlessly flicking ears, thanking her for her service. Merlin set the horse free.

The creature dallied nearby and observed him for a while, even when Merlin made shooing motions with his arms that should have been impossible to misunderstand. Out of ideas, he pressed the heels of both hands to his head and looked skyward for guidance. She swished her tail and raised her muzzle toward the clouds, mimicking him-he couldn't help the smile that felt like a grimace, its tight stretch across his face unfamiliar. Finally-after another long, leisurely drink from the stream-with a snuffling and half-hearted bite at Merlin's hair, ever in disarray, the mare crossed the water easily and took her leave of him.

The front of his boots had split open and calluses formed between his toes by the time the vagrant wood smoke rising from humble homes broke the monotony of the sprawling greens and yellows. There, the women and children narrowly avoided the edge of starvation well-trod by the people of Ealdor, but their clothes hung loosely on their thin bodies all the same. Their obvious wariness eased once they talked to him, and Merlin wondered what it said about his appearance that even families with several young mouths to feed offered to share their meal with a complete stranger-they pressed something hot to drink in his palms and bade him sit down by the fire.

Word around these parts was that the once prosperous kingdom of Camelot had begun to crumble from within under the weight of burgeoning discontent-a legacy of the last years of Uther's reign-while the constant threat of Saxon invasion proved too much for a young king still healing from the siege at Guinnion which nearly took his life. In time Arthur would have made a decent king, they grudgingly admitted. If only things had been different. It was a shame he had his father's burden to bear.

But even as those who knew how it would end shook their heads in lament, it didn't stop the awed whispers around the fire when travellers returned home to share the news they'd heard: It was rumoured that in the city of Caerleon, a few hundred men were slain by King Arthur's sword alone. That can't be, countered the young lad stirring the pot of stew. Those from Caerleon are versed in dark sorcery and Camelot has no warlock.

The tale of the servant who became a terrifying sorcerer for Camelot's army had spread far beyond borders; the disappointment was that he perished in the battle of Guinnion, though some villagers had their doubts. Merlin burnt his tongue on the bowl of broth and looked perplexed at all the right lulls in the conversation as they speculated whether Arthur Pendragon would outright abolish the laws laid down by his late father. While those who practised magic were no longer executed in Camelot, the young king had never replaced the fallen warlock and no one knew why.

Long months and three increasingly disparate villages later, Merlin crossed the borders into a land whose old king had once forged an alliance with Uther. There, the men spoke of Camelot with the same malevolent undercurrents of excitement that the smell of fresh blood might rouse in a predator. When asked what he reckoned of the fate of the once dominant kingdom, the wanderer from Ealdor would pause in his work to wipe the sweat from his brows and shrug. They pitied him, this simple lout in tattered clothing, always hanging on to his bundle of rags, clearly ignorant of the end of an era and history being made elsewhere in Albion.

On an unremarkable spring day, the rhythm of Merlin's life, long carried aloft on restless wings, beat out a slow, widening circle in the crisp skies over an unfamiliar stretch of land before coming to rest in the waves of rippling grains-settling down, at last. He devoted his days to an elderly couple who had lost their only son in the war years ago. They sensed that he, too, was wounded, and somehow his quiet ways fit unobtrusively in the space left behind. He tended to their crops and livestock with patient care. Then, in the summer, they found an additional reason for him to stay, knowing that the swineherd's daughter had given birth to another baby girl and the young family needed help harvesting their grain. Merlin threshed the abundance of golden wheat by hand, the same hands he used to feed the unruly chickens that pecked at his ankles. He toiled with the grateful husband and wan-looking wife under a harsh midday sun, ate from the same pot of porridge as they and slept on the hard ground out in the open air-and under the generous offer of their modest roof only when it rained.

It was simple and gratifying to work without magic. Strange, that it felt like returning to the roots when the relinquishment ought to have rankled, for someone whose magic thrummed against his rib cage-stronger than a heartbeat-ever since his first breath. He recalled the brashness of his first year in the castle, when he'd cheekily polished the sundry pieces of armour, sharpened swords, and patched Arthur's boots in between having his nose buried in a book and keeping one eye on the door just to relish Gaius's exasperated glare. (Once, Gaius had facetiously held Merlin responsible for turning his hair white. It was a good memory.) Later, when Merlin willingly learnt to do all his tasks by hand in the interest of discretion, there had still been the tiniest trace of resentment. His powers had now been tainted with the deaths of too many sons and fathers, and working without magic felt good; it felt clean. He measured the calluses forming on his palms, the heat of the sun baking into his skin, and the sweat burning his eyes as his back strained with honest labour.

The girls brought water out to him in the sun and saved a seat for him under the large tree, and Merlin listened to them singing as they worked, cutting the barely ripe flax stems to be soaked and beaten until soft so that their mother could spin the fibres into thread. The youngest, the newborn, smiled at him with sleepy twinkling eyes when waking from her nap in the cool shade no matter whether the harvest was healthy or if the unexpected deluge had destroyed the crops, and one day he found himself smiling back, a movement of the mouth nearly forgotten. The children's affection for him was weightless-the thread that pulled him back. They saved their favourite foods for him when they gathered around the fire in the evening to share supper; in the autumn, one of the girls tossed slices of an apple which he caught with his mouth while his hands were tangled deep in his work, grimy with dirt. Her laughter woke her little sister.

Did you lose someone you loved? their mother asked one time while his gaze was drawn to the distance, his mind drifting away from the soothing rhythm of his hands scutching the bundles of flax. There was an airy lightness of feet skipping behind his crouched back, then running away. Someone had placed a light blue flower in his hair while he wasn't paying attention. He exhaled and puffed his air upwards, but did not try again when the petals slipped down to his shaggy fringe and seemed happy to lodge there.

Yes. I suppose, he answered, thinking of Gaius and his quarters brimming with the scent of herbs, missing Gwen and Morgana, knowing he might never see them again. And he ached at the thought of his mother whom grief had aged terribly. He did not-in that moment, could not-think about Arthur.

Merlin repaid the family's generosity with sweat and hard work, ensuring they had a bountiful supply for the winter and that the linen spun from soft thread would keep them cool for a while, then warm in the coming months.

He left their village on the evening the last of the leaves dangling from frail trees turned a translucent, brittle yellow. Over the following months, he would seek but fail to find that sense of almost belonging, although elsewhere along his wandering he would encounter what he hadn't known to look for: strangers who rested their gaze on Merlin for a moment longer than casual, a carpenter or an apprentice to the blacksmith-other lonely souls. Tumbling into the tall grass with a body that was neither broad-shouldered nor light-haired, Merlin realised the aching emptiness that had lured him from the streams and gnawed constantly at his spine was not the need for nourishment, but his starving for physical touch. It was frightening, how much he craved the fingers tracing over his face, down his neck and chest; how he trembled at the slickness against his belly, the answering hardness of another man against his hips, the roughness of skin and the burn of another's warmth.

He never stayed in one place for long.

He slept outside on the ground, on the dense earth that had never judged him nor cast him away. The farther away he travelled from the dungeons that had kept him, the more Merlin was able to hear changes in the shifting wind, the myriad living things in the swaying branches, the solemn trees and the ancient earth, all of them listening to him in turn. This other world was a realm he had been aware of, but never attuned to with such clarity or ease.

And at night, in his dreams, he returned to Camelot. To Arthur.

Merlin learnt that Arthur's body was firm and unyielding-sharp elbows pressing into his shoulders, strong forearms stabilised against the wall and palms opened to the stones on either side of Merlin's head, sometimes cupping his face-while his kisses were impossibly tender. There was a dissonance, a restrained uncertainty that lived beneath Arthur's skin, twined tightly around muscles and flesh, that made it difficult for Merlin to fathom how far he could trespass. Merlin kissed him back with as much courage as he could summon, confident enough for the both of them, but his hunger waned with each passing second until Arthur finally moved against him-a slow thaw, an affirmation.

Arthur walked him backwards to the bed, though Merlin closed his fingers around a wrist at the last so that Arthur toppled with him. When the layers of scratchy fabric were untangled and lifted from his body, Merlin's sigh stirred the head of hair, golden in the firelight, and made that face look up with a frown of concentration. Even in dreams, Arthur looked less and less like Merlin's treasured glimpse of him that night in the woods, when he had been mellowed by drinks and surrounded by jovially brawling knights, with a careless smile on his lips and a promise in his eyes.

It didn't hurt any more for Merlin to say Arthur's name-no longer a dangerous invocation clawing its way out of the airless, unending darkness beneath the castle. He was not betraying anyone's memories or overstepping his bounds when he touched Arthur lightly on the neck, along the breadth of shoulder and down his arm to the tendons of Arthur's wrist, pressing his lips to the centre of one palm and clasping their hands tightly together.

In this space, he took his time exploring the expanse of skin, kissing the long lines of Arthur's thighs and along his hipbones, tracing the old scar on his chest and the newer ones on his arms. Arthur allowed Merlin's focus to meander where it would, seeming for his part to be complacent with the slow touches and not wanting for more. So the first time Arthur took Merlin into his mouth was unexpected, and Merlin was far too tense, heels digging into the bedsheets and fighting the taut edge of arousal with every locked joint of his body, shaking and absolutely silent, until Arthur stopped what he was doing and let his lips slide up to Merlin's belly, sucking deep kisses along his ribcage, and in a voice roughened with amusement, with desire, ordered Merlin to let go.

Merlin closed his eyes and obeyed him for once.

* * *

"The night we returned with the captured bandit leaders," Arthur began just as Merlin was relaxing into the ridiculously comfortable pillow. He turned sideways, blinking several times to clear the fog from his eyes and giving the face beside him, half veiled in shadows, his full attention.

For a while it seemed that the opening constituted the entirety of what Arthur had planned to say.

"Yes?"

"In those days, when we went hunting and any creature larger than a rabbit was killed, you used to have this ineptly hidden look of devastation upon your face-do you know what some of the squires called you back then?"

"Your servant girl, amongst other things."

"So why, for heaven's sake, Merlin-"

But Merlin was also aware of the time several young squires were sacked by nightfall even though Merlin hadn't been offended in the least-they had simply taken cues from their prince, after all. He wasn't sure what was being asked of him, and for some reason his calmness only seemed to darken Arthur's mood.

"-there's always been something about you, but why would you choose that night to prove all my men wrong and my father right by fighting back like one possessed?"

At the heart of the entanglements between them, this was the hurt that might never scar. Perhaps they would never truly untie this knot, no matter how they tried.

"What would you have me do?" Merlin answered with questions of his own. "Should I have walked on my knees for your father, or bowed my head to show his guards where the axe must fall?"

"No," was the angry rebuff. "Of course not." Then in a more controlled tone, Arthur chaffed, "But you were no stranger to spending a night in the dungeons and you certainly appear to have developed a lifelong affinity for the stocks-"

All thanks to you, thought Merlin, burying his face into the pillow.

"-all of which you probably deserved." The harshness dissipated as abruptly as its onset. A hand on Merlin's jaw brushed the soft growth of his beard, then trailed behind his ear to linger in the curling ends of his hair, before stroking down the skin of his vulnerable neck. Their neutral ground. Back and over the invisible line Merlin had drawn when he mentioned the axe, Arthur's touch almost apologetic.

"Merlin. I would've come through for you, you know that."

Incurring his father's wrath for want of a small yellow flower. Neglecting his duties and riding after his servant all the way to Ealdor. Yes, Merlin did know him, this king who fought alongside his knights and would lay his life on the line for the safety of any of them-perhaps understood him too well.

Taking shape by candlelight, this might be the most desperate lie Arthur has ever told himself.

Because who could have guessed that one day it would be Merlin-loyal, harmless Merlin-smoked out by a determined father, to find himself on the other side of the divide? He couldn't forget the speed, the unexpected blow that slammed into him as he struggled against Uther's guards. Merlin wondered that had he managed to overpower them and escaped from Camelot a fugitive, whether Arthur would have ridden after Merlin and finished this hunt on his own.

Arthur was holding his breath for Merlin to speak; Merlin found he was suddenly incapable of making a sound.

The coldness of Arthur's eyes that night continued to haunt him, in his dreams and in his waking moments. But even sweet water altered into parched sand, impossible to choke down, continued to sift just as inevitably through one's fingers. He let the coarse grains of his grievance scour through him in waves, and when he was ready he faced the anger too. Everything had happened in the past; scorched fields no longer fed the fire.

Finally Merlin answered, as kindly as he could, "It would've been a difficult choice." He blew out the struggling flame of the candle burnt nearly to the end, leaving the two of them in the darkness.

* * *

Some nights they said very little, yet their hours together still felt weighted with meaning. After a brief rain that cleansed the air of the smells of smoke and the lingering dryness of drought season, they explored the woods in near silence, cherishing the quiet between them. At most, Arthur would whisper Merlin to call his attention to the falcon's nest high up over the branches, still dripping rainwater, or This way to navigate them down a less tricky path.

They reached a dingy, weathered cave area that Merlin had never set foot in before, but which somehow seemed familiar. Narrow-airless. He froze at its opening, some part of him refusing to cross the threshold. Arthur turned back with a soft questioning sound, reaching blindly for him in the darkness. The torches they carried had been doused by the sudden downpour, and no amount of Arthur's baleful glares had been able to dry the wood-a prat at the oddest times, but never a magical one.

Like the wildness of a changeable night sky distilled, spheres formed of lightning appeared ahead of them, illuminating their way.

The longest sentence spoken that night: "So that was you, after all."

Inside Merlin's chest, the tempest that circled the ancient ruins of old wounds stilled completely, waiting. But there was no fear on Arthur's face, only the ease of understanding, of knowing Merlin. As the night winds blew gently, drying his hair and sodden shirt, like the last leather clasp fastened on armour everything in their past and future locked into place.

One time, they met under a full moon in the stillness of Ealdor.

Surprising, that of all the places in the kingdom, this was the one in the foreground of Arthur's thoughts. Merlin showed him the fields where he spent his childhood days, the tangled dirt sheltering resilient wildflowers that had weathered seasons of floods and droughts. The sharp drop of the land into slippery ravines, which villagers called the Dog's Tongue, was where Will first found out his secret by accident-but also the first time Merlin learnt the taste of acceptance. And there, the gnarled tree that had torn too many breeches (which Hunith had patched and repatched throughout his childhood) was where Will had bravely climbed, despite his fear of heights, to watch Merlin leave for Camelot without saying goodbye. Arthur listened to his nervous ramble as they walked through the nooks and crannies of the village, all the places dear to his heart.

Then Arthur followed Merlin's example and sat on the soil, though it was far from the spot where four tired bodies had bedded down under the stars and mulled over a plan to defeat Kanen's men. Merlin blew patiently on some kindling to start a small fire. Arthur crossed his arms and leant back, watching out of the corners of his eyes as the Pendragon crest took shape in the darkness, its outline shifting with the wind, alive.

With a sigh and an improbable wish, Merlin stopped showing off and scattered the embers to send the miniature dragon out into the wild.

Much later, Arthur moved closer to the ashes of the fire and wrapped Merlin's fingers within his own.

It was not the first time they undressed each other, not the first time they touched. But Merlin had just sucked a bruising kiss into the pulse point at Arthur's neck, urging him with whispers of Arthur and yes while Arthur gripped him tightly around the shoulders and slowly pushed inside his body, a heat stroking inexorably deeper with each drawn out, uneven thrust, when Merlin jarred awake as if falling from a great height. The dream had ended far too soon, remnants of that daunting dive of being known by Arthur, loved by Arthur, already dissipating like smoke. His limbs shook and his teeth chattered while he lay there panting on the damp earth, with heavy, dew-laden leaves hanging above his forehead and his seed smeared wetly on his stomach. The night sky stretched out above him, quiescent and passing no judgment-it was unbearable and he placed an arm over his eyes.

For the brief taste of that searing warmth, for all the tenderness of Arthur's palm over his chest, it made waking to this sublime wilderness without Arthur's touch that much lonelier.

Ealdor was where Merlin would again find Arthur, aimlessly wandering the fields of barley. It didn't seem to matter how long he'd been waiting; Arthur only complained with a look of mock affront that he'd never had a bed partner disappear on him before-a boast Merlin would refuse to dignify with a polite response-all the while tugging Merlin closer, and closer still, until their foreheads touched in longing, in relief.

Some nights he found Arthur in his old chambers, a space that belonged to someone only years younger but a lifetime less troubled-a prince, not yet a king. The cosy fire and the rickety chair; the wooden table with its finished surface marred by lighter rings from Arthur's predilection for mulled wine; the thick winter rug that Merlin accidentally burnt a hole in one time.

Some nights, he saw Arthur under the hushed magnificence of the stars.

Those were his most treasured nights of all.

There was a time I would've given up anything for you, even my life.

"Merlin-for the love of Camelot, what nonsense are you mumbling now?"

Arthur lifted his chin from arms folded comfortably over soft moss to squint in Merlin's direction. The night dew shone in his fine hair. Merlin thought of all the days that had rushed past them downstream before they knew to close their fists around a time now irretrievably beyond reach-lambent afternoons when it was possible to shirk their duties and laze in peaceful silence by a winding brook, a prince flinging stalks of grain at his servant's head.

"I said, back then I would have offered up my life for yours without hesitation."

In his fledgeling anxiety to protect Arthur, by any method and at all costs, from the never ending dangers that threatened amidst the bustling court of Camelot, Merlin lost track of the steady cadence he'd known since birth. But he heard it clearly now, had in fact been listening to it for a while, its deep rhythm accompanying him since he strayed from the streams: a resonant, powerful heartbeat that curiously did not drown out even the softest whisper of insects. He dug his fingers into the dirt and let the ancient note woven over millennia wash over him.

In the moonlight, Arthur's eyes were alert and pale as water as he studied Merlin carefully before asking, "But no longer?"

He didn't know the answer to that.

"That's not very loyal, is it, Merlin." Instead of being offended, Arthur seemed relaxed as he gazed into the distance. Under the stars and a cold crescent moon, lying on their bellies on an outcrop overlooking landscape Merlin didn't recognise, the features of Arthur's face were youthful and unstrained. "The worst servant I've ever had, so I really shouldn't be surprised; it would be characteristic of you to drink poison for a prince yet sit there scratching your head while your king tumbles off a cliff-"

That earned a huff of laughter from Merlin, though the swift wind stole the sound away.

"-but I suppose I'm pleased by the change."

No other king would be so heartened by an admission of insubordination.

Waves of thousands marched to war for Camelot because their king set them in motion. Anywhere Arthur led, they followed. And if the servant had become a different man, it was because his lord had changed him. Merlin felt a tightness in his chest as he watched Arthur rest his chin on his forearms and close his eyes once more. Every line of that body spoke of bone deep weariness, even in repose.

Sprawled there on their stomachs, elbow to elbow, confessions that no court advisor would ever hear quiet as whispers in each other's ears, Merlin wanted more than Arthur could give. To be his trusted friend and his equal; to spend one more day by Arthur's side, more if the imminent wars would let him get away with it.

This hunger was what he took with him-a lasting change, for all his days.

He mentioned none of it, giving voice only to a sleepy question. "What do you call that mountainous area-down there, shaped like a rooster?" The general direction was pointed out with an arm that wavered all over the lands as Merlin's mouth cracked open with a yawn.

"Those-Merlin, feel free to pay attention when your ridiculous questions are answered instead of ignored like they deserve to be-those are the old mountains of Eidyn."

"And who lives beyond them?"

"The people of Cambria, whose king signed a trading pact with my father in the worst year of the famine. They are one of Camelot's oldest allies-"

Merlin stopped yawning and turned sombrely to regard Arthur. Arthur, whose lips had been parted with a good word or two about allegiance, abruptly looked away. As king, he'd learnt to mask his surprise, so only an air of resignation shadowed his profile. Words weren't needed after all; he seemed to understand Merlin just fine without them. And before Merlin could think of a single consoling thing to say, Arthur himself lifted the gravity of the situation with tales and exaggerations more becoming of a lewd village boy than the ruler who might one day unite Albion.

Did I ever tell you that story about the Cambrian custom of hunting the most inedible wild animals from their kingdom to bring along on their journey, as a symbol of goodwill towards Camelot? Among the emissaries was a much lauded huntress who had the great misfortune of falling in love at first sight and subsequently harbouring designs on Morgana's virtue-not that Morgana had any to speak of, mind you.

No, Arthur. I can't imagine why you never shared this fascinating titbit of political history.

He remembered Morgana glaring promises of excruciating pain at Arthur, the first week of spring when Arthur would innocently inquire whether she enjoyed the delicate meat of three-toed boars.

This is no laughing matter, Merlin. Our lovesick Cambrian giantess could have just as easily trussed you up and roasted your skinny behind over an open fire.

Where I would be sure to find you, had you taunted Morgana one more time.

Nonsense, Arthur huffed.

The light in Arthur's eyes was a banked fire that never went out. Always vigilant, tirelessly searching for ways to strengthen Camelot's ties when there was so little left to trade or manpower to spare. Within him was a resilience undiminished by recent loss, constantly watching for the enemy's weakness and a way out of this plight.

Merlin would follow this man anywhere. If Arthur spoke the words, he would be incapable of answering no. But Arthur never once asked him to return to Camelot. The gift was weightless; all there was to show for it an empty cloth sack and feet cracked from walking-freedom.

When he allowed his eyes to drift shut, a kiss-barely felt-was placed on his brow, wishing him a dreamless slumber at last. A gesture like an ending.

* * *

Some nights, Arthur refused to be found. The mountains and valleys stood vast and silent without him, their beauty stripped of warmth. Merlin melted a meandering path through knee-deep snow in his frustration with the glacial white terrain-a luminous land under the light of the moon. And that was how Merlin knew that his words had been heeded, given more weight than the scrolls of maps and months of strategics with military advisors; Camelot was preparing for war in her dominion.

* * *

VIII. The other half

It was possible, Arthur had learnt, to push men to their limits, right up to the edge of rebellion and long past the point when bow strings would have snapped. The villagers' indignation continued to simmer. They didn't see why they were being pulled from meagre fields in the precious hours of remaining daylight to be trained by dreary, unforthcoming knights. Their young king had certainly never seemed to care for their backwater hamlet before, and why should he; even they knew the village held no particular charm except for sitting in the middle of all the trade routes and offending visiting nobles with their hard lives.

They grumbled and cursed at each other through every drill and during breaks for food at midday and sundown, and at the knights too when they realised no one had been beheaded for speaking their minds.

The work to rebuild a battered army was unending. Those swords that could be salvaged needed sharpening while most of the shields belonging to the foot troops should have been replaced ages ago. Someone had to remember to regularly dispatch rested soldiers to relieve the pairs on sentry duty stationed at the north, south, east, and west lookouts for days at a stretch, otherwise the stirrings of discontent would not be contained this time. Arthur caught himself dozing off at odd moments: leaning against the sheds with a half-chewed, unappetizing scrap of dried meat in his hand; or sharpening a sword for one of the village lads who was doing more harm to the blade than good; or once, sitting upright in his saddle. He would have fallen and cracked his head if not for his exceedingly restless horse.

It was secretly a relief that on the few occasions the adamant footsteps of sleep caught up with him, his body was too tired to dream.

Before the fortnight was over, a sense of unease had spread through the battalions with some soldiers foolishly impatient to hunt down their enemies rather than waste time strengthening defences at the frontiers. They clamoured for action when Arthur could least afford to lose his focus. His knights gathered around him while he reordered the formations to strategically cover for the village men who would be fighting amongst them. In the end, he didn't need to doubt his decision or address the unruly few, every one of whom he viewed as his own: the Saxons and Cambrians came riding in on the last dry days of winter like a swarm of locusts descending. A scraggly head still dripping blood was gruesomely displayed on a pike-one of the soldiers sent to relieve the sentry had dark hair the colour of coal that tangled and curled around his young face. And with that bloody trophy and their black flags flying, they brought the battle to Camelot's gates.

Garwlwyd the Grey was not nearly as physically intimidating as legends would have people believe, although the tales were correct in that he wore the finger bones of all the leaders and local heroes he had slain in battle as tokens on his dusty grey robes. Viewed from afar, Arthur thought perhaps the dead had rearranged their remains to send the wearer a collective vulgar gesture, but subtlety was often lost on those too thick-necked to look downwards. That was Arthur's honest opinion, and he said as much.

In the moments before the battle descended upon them-before Saxons rushed the plains setting fire to their barn sheds, before harsh smoke and the noises of frightened animals permeated the air-Arthur drew a roaring laugh out of Bedivere, who turned to clasp him on the shoulder. There was something jolly about his usually surly demeanour that seemed to say, if victory eludes us, it's been an honour to fight alongside you. After they lost Sir Geraint in their last clash with the Saxons-soft-hearted, noble Geraint who annoyingly saved Arthur's life and whose eyes had been closed, as if in repose, when they climbed down a ravine to retrieve his body-Bedivere was one of the last knights to have followed Arthur since the very beginning.

Arthur glared at Bedivere and issued a stern warning, "Don't."

Then all sounds were lost in the crashing of steel blades and the snapping of crossbows, the war cries of those charging and the moans of the stricken and dying. The mounted knights advanced the forefront and the crossbowmen followed close behind, before the Saxon's pikemen beat them back. Vultures circled in a swarm overhead, greedily awaiting the bodies to be abandoned. Their strong wings beat forcefully in the stifling, windless torpor above a field of pandemonium, the very earth seeming to hold her breath for the outcome. Despite the help of the villagers, Arthur's men remained outnumbered, a disadvantage he had anticipated. But he'd counted on being able to find a flaw in the Saxon-Cambrian lines-even the strongest armies with tight, disciplined defences had a weakness. If Arthur could find the seam to strike that would break the links, Camelot still had a chance.

What he had not counted on was having to fight off wave after wave of savages more beastlike than human. Their snarling faces were distorted, spittle falling from bared teeth. Only the darkest form of sorcery, with no thought for sacrifice or consequences, could turn common soldiers into the terrible dogheads whose raw power challenged the skills and training of his knights. Arthur had struggled at the first onslaught, Excalibur's blade quickly coated with black blood that set the steel hissing. The knights shifted to fighting with their backs to each other, no room for recklessness in the face of magic; thus they held their enemies' sharp claws and teeth at bay, and cut down a small number of the Cambrians. But it was not enough.

Though the foot soldiers put up a good fight, they were slaughtered in droves by arrows that slipped their shields and sword swings that dented armour. The dogheads-Arthur found out when the first agonised screams turned his head-had teeth capable of tearing through mail. It was the villagers' suffering that jolted him like a physical blow; the actual hit that wormed through his defences in his distraction barely registered.

One name weighed heavily on Arthur's mind as he drew blood and bled in turn, as he ran his sword through a Cambrian and turned around just in time to fend off another's attack.

From across the fields, Garwlwyd the Grey let out a roar and started taking long strides that easily swallowed the fifty paces between them, swinging his broadaxe at unlucky soldiers in his path and heading straight for Arthur. Arthur wiped at the sweat running down his face and beckoned Garwlwyd over with an arrogance that rarely failed to infuriate his enemies, but Garwlwyd was as tough and cold as the victor needed to be.

Sword clashed against axe, an unbalanced match hammering out a chaotic rhythm. Arthur was the faster of the two but Garwlwyd dealt blows without tiring, each strike followed through with inhuman strength. Arthur dodged, then spun close to Garwlwyd's side to drive his sword through the thick grey robes, but before Excalibur found its mark the head of the axe swung around again, nearly clipping Arthur's ear as he lurched. Arthur stumbled back, the point of his sword dragging on the dirt. His pulse was still beating in his neck; he could still feel the shear of cold wind across his skin. Naught but a near miss.

The Cambrian giant kept his eyes fixed on Arthur as he raised his weapon to his mouth and licked the fresh smear of blood off the dirty bit. A promise of things to come.

In answer, Arthur worked the stiffness out of his wrist while Excalibur whistled at the ready. His stance appeared as undaunted and confident as before, betraying nothing of the darkness spreading at the edges of his vision or the awareness, right then, that they were likely to lose the village. And from there, everything.

Once Camelot falls, King Cendred's kingdom won't be far behind. It was only a matter of time. So finally-finally, Arthur allowed himself to think, Ealdor. An unbidden name immediately followed in that moment of weakness:

Merlin.

Not the warm breath of silent laughter in his ear while the night winds off the cliffs set him shivering and grousing, nor the heat of that mouth if he turned quickly enough to capture it mid-word-when Arthur thought of Merlin he remembered the defiant hands stripping his armour piece by piece in the early days, before they each learnt what the other was made of. Perhaps Arthur should have apologised when he had the chance, but the words may very well have choked him on their way out his throat. So because he was a Pendragon, different from his father in the most important ways except one, he calmly and resolutely cut that line of thought. The loves of the Pendragon men, their loss and their downfall-regrets never suited father or son. All these turbulent years after the final test at Gedref-which had, in Arthur's view, been no test at all-he was glad that Merlin wasn't by his side to witness a losing battle.

Ealdor, he thought carefully, closing his eyes for only an instant-that was all he needed. Warn Cendred. Your people are my people.

His knights extricated themselves from individual skirmishes back to his side, defying the equality they had all sworn around their circle and wilfully trying to guard him as if even with all his failings, Arthur's life was still worth all of theirs. He shoved at their backs and threatened punishment for their disobedience, but they had inexplicably learnt to ignore him. The crash of a fight always seemed louder when he was removed from it. Someone lost their weapon-a plain sword-and failed to pick it up again. Over a knight's plate armour, he saw Garwlwyd's mouth open in a stark grin.

The vultures scattered as the air changed, a sensation akin to an earthquake deep below ground and lightning underneath his skin. The sky plunged into complete darkness between one flash of the sword and the next. He couldn't see the sun, and if it weren't for the hesitant murmurs around him Arthur would have thought he'd gone blind. The light slowly returning was the only sign that something had shifted in the lines of battle. Camelot's soldiers started breaching the defences of the Saxons, their swords drawing dark blood from the Cambrians, his men's weapons almost as charmed as the one gripped tightly in his hands. The howling of the dogheads were gradually silenced as bolts easily pierced their throats.

The villagers whispered fearfully amongst themselves while his knights and crossbowmen rallied each other to gather their remaining strength, their battered bodies, and finish what the backlash of magic had started for them-Arthur pushed through them only to stop short. For where Garwlwyd had been standing, there was only a heap of ash on the ground. Not even his bones remained. More men fell on both sides before the shouts-For Camelot-spread and intensified, clamour building to deafening levels. Sensing that the tides had turned against them, the Saxon army began to pull back.

Whatever had scared away the birds and darkened the heavens swooped down into view all of a sudden, diving low, close enough to snatch the many bodies littering the slopes. But the large shape-a dragon, Arthur thought-only touched the grass before soaring once more into the air, steam rising from wings that beat like the clap of thunder. It took a turn faster than should be possible for its size, circling high above them and casting a long shadow on faraway valleys and snow-capped peaks. Men ducked for cover or tried to shoot their arrows towards it in vain. The dragon was canvassing the battlefields, breathing a firestorm in the paths of retreating Saxons and Cambrians but leaving Camelot's soldiers unscathed.

The black banners thrust crookedly into the earth remained, silent as tomb markers. In his disbelief and in all the chaos, it took too long for Arthur to notice-there, between two flags, a flash of dark hair and sloping shoulders. The unarmoured body screamed Saxon. All that could be seen of this skywatcher was the long stretch of his throat and the angle of his chin as he followed the dragon's flight-until the knights surrounding him and the swords pointed at him finally earned his attention and he looked down, eyes ablaze like shards of the sun. There was no mistaking him; Arthur would recognise that face anywhere.

"Merlin?" A name barely squeezed out of his tight throat, emotions rising high in his chest and threatening to overwhelm him. Arthur staggered unsteadily across the field of broken shields and the bodies strewn between them. Whatever paths Merlin had walked under the sunlight-wherever he had gone in the days that Arthur could not follow-had touched skin pale from the dungeons with the colour of wheat fields, open air and freedom. Arthur's tightly held sword was dropped when even its slight weight seemed to be slowing his walk. His knees threatened to buckle every step of the way. A few knights stood in his way to protect him, but Bedivere and those who had known him first as a prince, then as their king, parted to let him through.

He had forced Merlin out of the dungeons right into the atrocities of war on foreign soil, and Merlin had never failed him. But the displays of his power back then, impressive even while dirty and bound in chains, were child's play compared to what had just transpired on their own land: Merlin needing neither sword nor gestures to command the elements, but able to turn the very tide of war with a single look of his eyes and a bare movement of his lips. The dragon circled lazily overhead, doing a half-hearted and admittedly dismal job of chasing down their retreating enemies, seeming more interested in this stranger who moved with imperturbable composure and the face of a war god.

Then Merlin turned to him slowly with palms raised in surrender, a shrug-and the terror of non-recognition faded away. Thin shoulders at ease, confident in his powers, Merlin stood as if he had simply waited there between the falling flags-waited for Arthur to emerge victorious and finally come to him. The light in his eyes was for Arthur alone, unguarded and shockingly familiar-a warmth he had missed, every moment of their separation.

All about them, the black banners whipped to life in the sudden breeze racing through the village plains.

"My king," Merlin answered, claiming him with the steadiness of mountains and the inevitability of tides pulled back to shore-the way Merlin uttered all his truths.

[ The half cannot truly hate that which makes it whole. ]

End.