Paroniria (2/5)

[arirawrs]

( Part 1)

Merlin lays there, the muscles in his left arm sore and burning whenever he moves. He never has gotten the hang of healing spells. Merlin watches the tiny rays of blue gray light flicker in the window and the sounds of Camelot beginning to wake. The cocks crow and he can hear the first clangs of the blacksmith’s hammer as he begins to forge his new masterpiece of metal. The sorcerer’s fingers tug on a loose thread hanging from his blanket as he closes his eyes for a brief moment. He imagines the spark of red flames from the forge behind his eyelids and the hammer brought down on the sword in time with the clanging. It isn’t much of a sword now, but with time and patience it could be beautiful and the day would come that its fate would be decided. It could be a weapon of terror and bloodshed, screams would echo when it was drawn; or it could be a protector, the sword of a knight maybe, then it would be a tool of justice and peace. Either way, Merlin thinks as he stretches his sore arm out carefully and feels the pull of tight muscles, the sword won’t have a choice. It is just a simple tool in the entire scheme of things, after all.

The sorcerer has to open his eyes, the darkness behind his lids beginning to suffocate him. Ever since he can remember, even as a little boy in Ealdor falling asleep to the sounds of crickets and the rain falling, he had never liked closing his eyes to wait for sleep. He felt the darkness suffocating and painful, like someone was sitting on his chest and simultaneously covering his mouth and nose. Merlin had fallen asleep when he was younger, still daydreaming as his eye traced patterns and watched shadows. There was always so much to see at night.

Merlin rubs at his eyes, dry from the tears and lack of sleep, but still he snuggles closer to his blankets. He feels the ache of his muscles and it’s almost pleasant amongst the warm sheets. The sorcerer knows that soon he will have to rouse himself up and out of bed to face the day. He knows he will have to don the black robes and accidentally forget to wear his hat. Merlin will give Arthur his reports and stand by his side as court is held. It’s all rather boring in Merlin’s point of view, but the days when he can finally sneak out of the court room then - and sometimes it’s only then - Merlin feels like being court sorcerer is worth it. He disguises himself, sometimes, as an old man in bright blue robes with a long white beard. He even wears the hat if he’s feeling generous. He has the walking stick and everything. He’s almost perfected the old man hobble without the use of magic and he is quite proud of himself. It’s not as easy to remain hunched over as one might think. Merlin goes out into the city, or sometimes he even goes to the outlying villages, helping them with their problems as much as he can. The sorcerer heals the oxen, mends the fences, rebuilds houses; Merlin does anything and everything to help the people of Albion. They are his people too - even if they don’t know it.

Merlin relishes in the feeling of making sparks fly out of his fingertips for the children’s amusement. It’s nice doing magic for a pure fun and joy, instead of a tool that played a role in the outcome of life or death. It makes Merlin happy. The sorcerer tells stories with the aid of figures carved out of the very air, the bright red flames leaping from his bare fingers and forming magical creatures in the sky. He makes dragons, phoenixes, and unicorns. Merlin makes anything and everything that strikes his fancy and that of the children. The children make it worth it. Their purity and wide, innocent smiles make Merlin’s heart fill and, in those moments, he finally knows what his purpose in life is again. The thrill of being able to brighten someone’s day, to watch the small frown from stress and worry slide off their face with a flick of a wrist or a snap of his fingers. Merlin loves to make people smile, especially children, and watch them shriek with glee as they clap their little hands together.

Merlin likes knowing there is a reason for it all, the bloodshed, the betrayals and the lies. He likes to think something good and joyous comes from it. The sorcerer watches the last of the shadows slink away and almost like clockwork there’s a knock on the door. Merlin’s been expecting it, it’s been happening every morning for the past two weeks after all. Still he groans and sighs and fusses unnecessarily with the sheets and takes his time to wash his face and pull on his black trousers before he opens the door. Gwaine is standing there, his hand anxious and restless over the hilt of his sword. The knight’s eyes are narrowed and worried but his stance immediately loosens after his sharp eyes dart over Merlin’s quarters and takes in the sorcerer’s appearance: tired and sleepy but otherwise unharmed. The relief in Gwaine’s eyes fades quickly before he leans forward to wrap Merlin in a one-armed hug. Gwaine smiles and pats the warlock on the back. “How are you doing, my friend? Is your wound healing well?”

The knight takes a seat at the wooden table, ignoring the magic brooms cleaning the floor and the laundry washing itself in the corner; the sound of water splashing onto the floor fills the silence. The knight’s attention is otherwise occupied by the two apples in his hands, one of which he tosses at Merlin’s head. The sorcerer pulls on the rest of his black uniform, his teeth biting into the soft, rosy flesh of the apple. The sweet juices of it explode in his mouth and he takes a second to revel in it before he turns to Gwaine.

“I really appreciate your help, Gwaine, but you honestly don’t need to keep doing this. You saved my life. That’s generally where most people call it quits, you don’t have to keep checking up on me you know. You certainly don’t have to do… this. Your quota of good deeds has been filled.”

Merlin bites his lip nervously, his fingers playing with the loose threads of his shirt. He hadn’t expected Gwaine to come back into his life like this, full force and with every intention to cram his way back into Merlin’s heart. The sorcerer hadn’t the time to build the walls back up, to formulate a lie. Merlin hadn’t ever needed to before, not in Gaius’ chambers, not in his chambers. It’s been Merlin’s sanctuary and asylum all this time, the only place where he can let the cries of frustration out. These walls watch him toss and turn in an induced and disturbed sleep, after all. These walls see him for who he is, they saw him at his weakest and worst. Here Merlin isn’t the all-powerful sorcerer of Camelot; here he is simply a man. A restless man with dark rings under his eyes, stark in contrast with his sickly pale skin. Here, Merlin is simply a lonely man with no refuge in sleep to be found.

Gwaine simply ignores him, swinging his leather-clad feet up onto the wooden workbench. The knight’s eyes are narrowed, his brow furrowed as if he was working out a hard problem. Merlin could practically hear the gears grinding in his head. “You don’t look well, Merlin.” The sorcerer shrugs, his pale lips opening to respond but Gwaine continues. “And you are my friend. I shouldn’t need a reason to care for you. I especially shouldn’t need any when you look so-”

Merlin tilts his head forward, his eyebrows raised and his mouth set in a challenging, stubborn line. Gwaine falters but he continues to press on, his dark eyes just as stubborn and determined. The knight stands and he grips Merlin’s arm as the sorcerer tries to leave the room in a flurry of dark robes and pale skin. “Merlin. Merlin. Look at me. I’ve known you for years. You look… you look sick. Diseased. It’s like something’s sucking you dry from the inside. You’re so pale and fragile. I’ve heard of ailments where these… parasites take a home in a man’s body. It may take years, but the host withers and eventually dies. Is it- is that it?” Gwaine pauses, his breath hitching in his throat.

Merlin can feel the knight’s warm breath on his cold lips. It feels… good. Gwaine’s dark eyes burn into Merlin’s, and he is just so sick of the empty hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. Merlin is being sucked dry from the inside. He is withering away, but it is no parasite that eats away at him. Gwaine leans forward slowly, as one would slide gently into cold water - cautious and weary. When their lips meet, it’s chaste and warm but so very empty. It is a kiss, but it is one shared between friends. It is a kiss one might lay on a dead loved one’s pale, cold lips. Merlin doesn’t think that is much of a reach at this point, with the pain of his injury shooting up his arm. Gwaine pulls back, pained, his eyes red and straining to hold the tears. “I’m trying, Merlin. I’m trying so hard to save you but I can’t do anything. Why won’t you let me help you?” Gwaine breathes heavily into Merlin’s shoulder as he pulls the skinnier man to himself. Merlin pats the knight’s back with his palm, rubbing circles into the bright red material. “Why won’t you heal yourself?”

Merlin just stands there and when he replies, his voice is quiet. “I can’t.”

Gwaine pulls away, his eyes red and wet but staring defiantly back at Merlin. The knight makes no move to wipe the tears from his eyes, glaring at him as if daring Merlin to mock his tears. The sorcerer says nothing, his fingers grasping at shadows as Gwaine pulls back. “Can’t, Merlin? Or won’t?” He tugs free and leaves the sorcerer’s chambers in a blur of red and brown. Merlin stares blankly around his now empty chambers. They feel bigger now, more so now than before. Gwaine had seemed to fill up the place, dwarfing the space and making it homier somehow. The quarters fit two perfectly but were far too large for one; it made the emptiness even heavier on Merlin’s shoulders.

The court sorcerer walks back into his room, the echo of feet on stone sounding like something from a long time ago, from a place far away where Merlin can’t reach. It is a place Merlin can barely see but feels deep inside the recesses of his soul, a simple belief that it is there.

The sorcerer leans down and cups the small white mouse in his pale, slender fingers. He closes his eyes against Sebille’s fur, his lashes dark against her pure white. Merlin presses his lips to her, and he can feel the thrum of her heartbeat. She squeaks, the noise shrill in the air. The sorcerer shushes her. “You’re so fussy. You know you like being cuddled. Don’t deny it, I’m onto you.” The white mouse just stares up at Merlin with what might be considered a fairly condescending expression - for a mouse that is. Merlin rolls his bright blue eyes, putting Sebille down gently on the floor. “Oh, alright. I’ll see you later, you utter queen.”

The sorcerer reluctantly drags his feet out the door, shutting it firmly behind him when he leaves. He feels the soft, worn recesses and cracks in the wood. He presses a palm to the door and shuts his eyes for a second; he can almost feel the heart beat of the place before it dulls and fades back into the fast thrum of the castle. Merlin makes his way through the castle, his mind elsewhere, anywhere else. His feet know where they are going, the stone as comforting and familiar as an old friend with a mug of ale. Merlin nods to the guards that stood outside the throne room and they let him pass without much more than a small smile and a respectful nod. He remembers the time when he wouldn’t have been able to enter of his own accord; the time when all he had was what Arthur gave.

The huge double doors push open and Merlin strides in, seeing King Arthur on a magnificent gold throne, his crown forged by the elves inlaid with sapphires and rubies. He sees the queen, with her lavish gowns and intricate crown made of soft yellow gold twisted with rubies and emeralds. They look beautiful and powerful. One does not have to look hard to understand why their enemies cower where they stand under Camelot’s gaze. Merlin bows and only walks forward when Arthur nods. The sorcerer can’t help but think that not much has really changed since his time as Arthur’s manservant. “My king.” Merlin meets Arthur’s gaze straight on and he sees the king raise a questioning eyebrow. “My queen.” Gwen smiles softly and blushes but Merlin can do little more than tweak his lips upward.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “And when have propriety and titles meant so much to you, Merlin? Come on, give me your clumsy, stumbling report.” The court advisors in the room school their expressions to those of simple amusement instead of the wide smiles that threaten to break upon their faces. Those new at court always gape at the way the king and his subjects converse. Whereas Uther simply had ‘yes’ men, Arthur’s advisors had a lot more bite. Merlin raises his eyebrows and he feels the burn of embarrassment threaten to sear across his cheeks, but he stops it before he can make a bigger fool of himself. Arthur shrugs and raises his hand as if to say, ’Well, come on then.’

Merlin takes in a deep breath to slow his rapid heartbeat, his tongue feels swollen and his throat dirt dry. It had never felt right to lie to Arthur. Kilgharrah could go on as much as he liked about how ‘the half cannot truly hate what makes it whole’ and all, but the lying was the worst. It had always been that way, lying to Arthur felt like he was deceiving himself.

“I was on the edge of the druid’s campsite when I was captured.” Immediately, a couple of Arthur’s advisors have points to make. Merlin holds back the urge to roll his eyes at them, of course they do. They are good men though, this he knows. They are honest, loyal and most importantly, they are fierce. They speak up when it is necessary and even more so when it isn’t. They keep Arthur fair and just; no one wants a king like that of Arthur’s predecessor. Uther was a man driven by hate and revenge, bitterness dark and piercing in every recess of his soul. No one wants Arthur to follow in Uther’s footsteps. They want him to grow and bloom to become the brilliant king they know he will be. So what if he has a little help?

One of the advisors stands, his eyebrows raised not completely unlike the way Gaius used to. He drums his fingers on the dark wood of the table, his eyes sharp and calculating as he watches Merlin. His dark green eyes are old; they’ve seen the rise and fall of many kings and their kingdom’s alike. Behind the wisdom and weariness there is a grim sort of determination. He has the resolve of a man who’s seen the end of great kings and the deprivation of their minds and power. He has seen the loss of justice and the beginnings of tyranny. The advisor will not let this kingdom die, he will not see his king fail; Arthur has given him the most hope he’s had in ages. “Captured? Are you not the single most powerful sorcerer in all of Albion?”

“I am,” Merlin bites out, his eyes narrowing. “They had a magical… rock. It made me weak and they captured me by force.” Eyes are trained on him, harsh and judging. A couple gazes are contemplative, and many wonder if there is not a more competent sorcerer who would be of better service to the king somewhere in Albion. Arthur merely raises an eyebrow, his pink lips pursed thoughtfully. Merlin clenches his fist tightly, feeling his nails dig into his palm and no doubt leaving half-circles of white imprinted in his soft skin.

“You claim to be the most powerful, yet you have been defeated by a… rock?” Merlin is cornered and he winces at the words that have been sharpened and made to impale. There are murmurs. A rock? What rock? …It is surely the work of a malignant sorcerer. Is it dangerous? Will it kill our people? Will it harm our children? Will it murder-

Arthur raises a hand, a simple gesture as the people of his court quiet, their faces worried but trusting. Their king will save them. Their king will not fail. They won’t let him. Merlin won’t let him. “I failed, and for that I apologize.” The sorcerer bows his head slightly, quickly dropping his gaze to the floor before allowing himself one glance upward. Merlin can see Gwen’s face, confused and worried as she watches him. Her eyebrows are furrowed and she looks tempted to speak up, to ask Merlin a question or demand the truth. Merlin’s hands are fisted in his dark robes by his sides. His lips quiver slightly, the motion miniscule. Merlin bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, the stinging pain clears his mind and washes away the haze of fear. “Sir Gwaine assisted me in my quest.” Merlin pauses and he sees Gwaine’s eyes widen with surprise - still slightly red and bloodshot from earlier, the sorcerer notes. The knight and the sorcerer’s eyes meet and questions, statements - accusations - are shot through the air to the other.

Merlin’s dark blue eyes are soft at first.

Thank you. You saved me.

Gwaine still saves him, to this very day - that very morning. Merlin knows Gwaine rescues him everyday without fail, like a child from the very jaws of life. But try as he might to turn Gwaine and his generous heart away, the stubborn knight just refuses to budge. Can anyone blame that child from wanting to break away? Dark brown eyes gaze back at him, fierce and loyal.

You didn’t need to be saved.

You didn’t want to be.

Merlin falters, his eyes flashing back to that of his king’s; too blue, too… Merlin’s mind scrambles for another color, another set of eyes. Any pair would suffice - anyone - just not those, anybody but him. The sorcerer’s eyes catch those of the advisor’s. The dark mud-brown of his eyes is contemplative, sharp. The old man simply raises an eyebrow, and for a second Merlin thinks he can see right through him. Merlin swallows; he can do this. He’s done this before. It really shouldn’t be this hard. Lying to the king should come naturally by now, he’s done it a million times after all. He really needs to stop being a complete and utter girl about this. Yet, in his heart of hearts, he knows it’s completely different. Lying to the king and lying directly to Arthur are worlds apart. There is no way he can do the latter, Arthur simply knows him too well. Merlin winces as the advisor begins to tap his foot, impatient. The sorcerer needs to decide now.

There is a sigh. “Merlin!” Dark blue eyes seek beautiful baby blues and the decision is made. He has to do this. He will do this, for Camelot, for the people in it, but most of all for its king. He will lie and he will lie for Arthur, to Arthur, because it’s always been so. Merlin will put the good of the people above his own wants and needs. He will not give up, not this time, even if Arthur does not believe the lie. Instead he will deceive and twist his words some more until his honesty and Arthur’s trust in him is torn to shreds. None of that matters, not Arthur’s feelings and certainly not himself. He will do what he has to, to ensure that Arthur is happy. Safe. For his part, Merlin will try not to hurt if Arthur does believe him. It will shatter the fragile distance between them, the illusion that all is as it used to be. They will be forced to finally come to terms that the king doesn’t know his sorcerer as well as they both thought he did. Merlin guesses that no one truly does.

In the throne room with a court full of people, Merlin has never felt more alone. Times like these are what make him want Sebille in his pocket. These are the times where Merlin wishes for a friend like the friend he once had in a certain prince a long time ago. But time goes on and people grow up. Friends become enemies, kings die and then princes become kings. Things change. Everything changes.

“Morgana and Morgause lead them, my lords. This stone they control took away my powers and made me physically weak. If not for Sir Gwaine… I fear I would be dead.” Merlin swallows and his eyes catch Arthur’s grimace. The expression is fleeting and insignificant to the untrained eye, but Merlin’s been watching Arthur for so long; years as his manservant and even longer as his friend. The sorcerer feels a swell of pride as he watches his king school his expression back to a mask of indifference and annoyance. Merlin knows him. One could say the sorcerer knew his king better than he knew himself. Some would say they were two halves of the same whole, simply incomplete without the other. That’s what they used to say, anyway. Wasn’t it? Merlin hardly ever hears those stories anymore.

He would sit by the fire glowing softly in the middle of the crowded cluster of houses in the lower villages. Grandparents would pull their precious grandchildren close to whisper stories in their ears. He would linger on the sidelines, the children never noticing his presence while the grandparents simply nodded and smiled at him. They told stories of Queen Guinevere, of her beauty and grace. There was no more time left in the night for stories of the young Merlin and Arthur, none of all their old adventures as boys and those stories of unicorns, sorcerers and - some say - even dragons. (The old men and women always managed to sneak in stories of his days as a servant and his seemingly endless time in the stocks, though).

Dragons may live forever, but not little boys. Their friendship was merely made of painted wings and pretty things, thrown away for elegant and bewitching rings. Merlin would turn his face away from the bright red glow of the fire, the shadows darker and deeper in its midst. Those shadows hid the sorcerer’s tears well, many things did.

Arthur raises a hand and stops his advisors from speaking. “Then Sir Gwaine must be rewarded. There will be a feast in his honor tonight. Great acts of courage and loyalty must be commended.” The king smiles warmly at the knight, but it does not reach his eyes. It is no secret among those in the court that Sir Gwaine disobeyed orders to save Camelot’s sorcerer. There were whispers then, rumors of the king’s knight and sorcerer. People spoke of seeing them behind the castle with their heads close and their bodies even closer. Romantics and poets wrote ballads and sang them where they knew the king wouldn’t hear. The king wanted his knights focused, his sorcerer and advisor clear-headed. Who could blame him?

Gwaine opens his mouth to speak as he steps forward and Merlin can see the determination in his eyes. The stubbornness and honor in Gwaine would bring Merlin and his crafted lies to burn at the pyre. The sorcerer shoots Gwaine a look, sharp and angry, a look that tells the knight not to utter a single word. His heated gaze warns his friend and anybody who dares to challenge him now that he will protect his king no matter the consequences. He will protect his king because that is all he has left to do. Arthur is all Merlin has left and he isn’t even his. Merlin’s dark blue eyes flash, and some swear they turn gold. They are bewitching - a drop of lightning in a room full of dark sky. Say nothing they command, and Gwaine is helpless to do otherwise. The knight bows, his eyes piercing as he glares at Merlin. The warm browns are filled with annoyance and anger, but most of all, with hurt. The sorcerer feels guilt pierce his gut. He doesn’t want this. He never wanted to lie to Arthur and to use his magic to restrain someone; not just anyone either, Gwaine. The hollowness fills him, a gut-busting feeling of an all-consuming emptiness inside him. The sorcerer cannot help but think and wonder.

Who am I?

But most of all…

What have I become?

The advisors give Gwaine a round of applause, the sound of clapping thunderous and deafening in the echoes of the throne room. Merlin sighs, the pressure of performing adequately is lifted from his shoulders. He isn’t a good liar as it is, so he certainly doesn’t need an extra twenty people watching him and deliberating on exactly what sort of mental deficiency he has. Merlin had enough of that to last a lifetime as a servant in his younger days. It is time he makes his escape.

Merlin wants to crawl back into his bed and wait for a sanctuary that will never come. He wants to lose himself in the lush green of the forest with its towering trees that were protectors of the stunning silence. Merlin yearns to lay his palm on the rough solid bark of the trees and feel their magic stream from the ground into every single leaf. He wants to feel the rush of knowing life is all around him, patient and growing - always growing - yet being unable to see any of it. It is the power in silence when death is prevalent with the deafening clash of swords on armor. Life stands silent and resolute in the carnage like it always has, the boldest form of dissent it can manage. Complete silence. It says it does not agree. It does not condone. Yet blood is still shed. Even under a good king, men still find reasons to murder. They always do.

“If you’ll excuse me, your majesty, my queen. I have to… attend to the city’s defensive wards.” Merlin hopes no one will say anything, that maybe - hopefully - they will overlook him. He may be Camelot’s sorcerer, but in these nobles’ eyes he is nothing more than the servant boy he used to be. In their eyes he is insignificant and disposable, a little wooden figurine, a dragon, in a chest full of dangerous weapons. One of those sharp metal things meant to be wielded and made for the drawing of blood, crafted only for this single purpose and nothing more. The sorcerer bows low and turns quickly to leave, his heart beating fast in his chest. He is so close, five more steps and he’d be to the door. Four. Just a little further…

“Merlin! I didn’t dismiss you.” Merlin freezes and turns as he looks up into Arthur’s face. The king is annoyed, that much is obvious, but he is perplexed as well. Arthur’s fingers drum silent beats onto the armrest beside him, quick and precise as he nods at Gwaine, a dismissal. The knight bows but he doesn’t leave. Instead Gwaine comes to stand by the sorcerer’s side, his hand clasped on Merlin’s shoulder. It’s warm and reassuring. Merlin cannot help the small smile that grows on his face as he rests his gaze on the man beside him. Gwaine simply nods and his eyes are beautiful just then, lit up with such loyalty and friendship that Merlin is sure he is left blinded. Those brown eyes speak; they say that though they do not agree, though they do not approve, they will stand behind him. They tell him that they trust him and they will support Merlin for no other reason besides that he is their friend, and that’s what friends do.

The knight and his king’s gazes meet. All the people of the court seem to hold their breath, entranced as the entire world hangs by a single thread that both men have the ability to snap. A single misspoken word could leave the other in ruin. Merlin watches both men before he stands between them both. He is that single fraying thread that both men are trying so hard to save. He might snap. Merlin nudges Gwaine but the knight still does not look away. His stance is tight and defensive. It is that of a warrior who is willing to disobey his king for his friend, that of a warrior who had. The king snaps his gaze away, his baby blue eyes coming to rest on Merlin’s.

When Arthur speaks his voice is cold, his eyes even colder. “Are you saying the magic of this… rock overpowered yours?” Merlin simply nods, his fingers knotting in the black fabric of his robes as his blood seems to freeze in his veins. Arthur’s face twists into one of irritation, his eyes narrow and his brow crumples. “Answer me, sorcerer.” Arthur sounds so much like Uther. Merlin feels the urge to flee kick in, to turn and bolt, to feel the pounding of his heart beat in time with his feet on the stone floor.

When he and Will were only boys and those older kids decided it would be funny to pelt them with rocks? He could have run then too, he could have left Will behind in the dust. But it isn’t in him to run away, to take the easy way out. He always did manage to choose the hardest, narrowest paths. Merlin would stand his ground no matter how much he’d like to hide himself away, curling himself into the fetal position and burrowing deep inside himself - dead, gone to the world. The sorcerer has to pause for a second, his arms wrap around his pale skinny body, breathing hard through his nose as he tries to slow his heart and thoughts. It’s okay, he tells himself, it’s Arthur. He wouldn’t hurt me. Merlin’s heart still beat hard in his chest though, his breaths coming in fast hitches, his lips parting for air. Merlin doesn’t know if he believes it anymore. The thought makes him sad and hollow inside - the loss of something he once had. Yet Merlin also feels a rush of something he cannot place. He reels when he realizes: it’s freedom.

Freedom hums softly in his veins, like a mother to a wailing child; it tells him to wait, that freedom sits just around the next corner. It won’t be too far off now, the time when King Arthur will no longer need him, the moment when Arthur cannot order him to stay. When Merlin will finally have to die. It burns him when he realizes he’s looking forward to it.

He can almost smell the smoke of the burning pyre and the absence of sound as the villagers mill around it. Their voices would simply be whispers while others yell and jeer, but Merlin won’t be able to hear a thing. Silence would be thicker than the smoke blanketing the air, and Merlin would feel the gazes settling on him again. He would feel the sweat sticking to his brow from the flames and wonder if it might happen again, or if Arthur won’t save him. If that time King Arthur would be the one to condemn him to burn.

Merlin thinks that if he could dream, he would dream of burning.

“That is my belief, sire.” The voices in the courtroom rise, harsh and loud. Merlin swallows, his tongue thick and his throat scratchy. He can feel his magic inside his body, slow and pulsing, curling around his soul - it’s home. The pain throbs beneath his skin - magic, his own magic beginning call out against him. It didn’t want to lie to Arthur, no, to anybody but Arthur! Merlin clenches his fists tightly, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to fight through this wall of magic building inside him, halting his tongue. When he speaks, it is painful. Every word claws past his throat, barely scraping past the wall. His magic is just another part of himself that belongs to Arthur, but he won’t let this be one of them. He will keep this lie closely bound to his soul and his heart. Merlin will save his king, even if it means he has to fight Arthur every step of the way.

“I request permission to go on another quest, my lord, so that I can finish what I started and accomplish what you have ordered me to do.” The sorcerer’s speech is slow but sure. Merlin is determined. He will do this right, he has to do this right after all the wrong he’s done. The pain makes Merlin grit his teeth as the king stares at him incredulously.

Arthur laughs, a sharp bark filled with contempt. “No, you’d only find some way to put yourself and the whole of Albion in peril, Merlin.” The king turns to Sir Gwaine, “Gather a dozen knights and rally volunteers from the sorcerers-”

Merlin’s eyes widen. How dare he? Before he can stop himself, the sorcerer calls out, his voice clipped and angry, “No! I can do it, Arthur.”

The court watches the battle of wills as Arthur and his sorcerer stare each other down. Arthur’s light blue eyes, full of passion and fierce burning flames of protectiveness for his friends, fight the cold dark blues of Merlin’s eyes. The sorcerer’s eyes stab ice into Arthur’s very core, weapons of steel and strength. He tastes his blood filling his mouth, scalding his tongue as he bites through his lip from the pain sizzling in his veins. He does not have time for this. Arthur glares at him, eyes narrowed as he walks toward Merlin, gold crown glinting in the afternoon light filtering in the windows. “Merlin. A word in my chambers.” The sorcerer bows stiffly before leaving the throne room, not waiting for Arthur to follow. They leave whispers behind in their wake.

There is no friendly banter or casual affection thrown around in the form of insults as they walk to the chambers they know all too well. Arthur enters first, of course, his pride visibly bristling as he shoves open the wooden door, the frame trembling. His sorcerer enters after, shutting the door behind him carefully. He feels the pain slowly ebb away as he places his palm where Arthur’s had been only seconds before. The sorcerer turns to stare at his king. “I’ll leave anyway, you know.”

Arthur looks up from where he is placing his sword. “You would disobey my orders?” Merlin nods, swallowing thickly but standing his ground. He can do this. He will do this - for himself, for Camelot and most of all for Arthur. Always for Arthur. Arthur crosses the room in three strides, his face inches away from Merlin’s. “You would disobey the king? You would shame me?” Merlin pauses, considering, before he nods once again. Arthur has said the wrong thing. If the king had asked for a favor, if he had asked Merlin to stay for himself purely for selfish reasons, Merlin might have considered. Yet he knows he can’t stay, what is at stake is far too great. Merlin stares down defiantly at Arthur, anger flashing in his eyes, wild and dark.

“You always did have too big of an ego,” Merlin snarls. What might have passed for a teasing comment before was now clearly meant to insult and hurt. The sorcerer knows he is walking a fine line. A single word, the smallest sidestep, will send him plummeting down to the dark depths below. Arthur jolts back in surprise, his eyes widening before they return to narrow blue strips.

The king clenches his teeth before snapping, “And you were always an idiot, Merlin. You still are! You useless, lazy, incompetent fool!” The sorcerer glares at his king, his hands balling into fists. Merlin is blinded. His vision hindered by the rage that unfolds behind his eyes, ready to bloom and grow when provoked. He wants to show Arthur just how useless he is. He wants to unleash a trickle of his magic onto the king to show him just who is at the other’s mercy. But the magic simply swirls towards Arthur, golden tendrils in the air, sparkling and shiny - harmless as they race forward to embrace their king. Arthur’s baby blue eyes reflect gold as they widen, his hands reaching up to grasp at the golden vines that weave through his fingers compliant and obediently. Like a lap dog, a voice inside his skull sings, full of victory and pride. A voice not unlike that which screams inside his head and tears at his brain every night. Not unlike that at all.

The golden tendrils caress Arthur’s face and fingers; both men can hear the twinkle of a million tiny bells when the king swipes a finger down one of the vines. His magic is…it’s laughing. It makes swirls in the air, beautiful and magical, delirious off of the touch of a loved one. The one. Arthur. A small smile touches Arthur’s face, an old smile, one that Merlin can remember from years before. It is the smile of a prince and a friend. It slips away just as quickly and unexpectedly as it had come. Merlin is snapped out of his reverie; the quirk of Arthur’s lips replaced by a harsh mocking smile, merely a shadow of all its previous glory.

“Ooh. What are you going to do? Hug me to death?” Arthur stares at him, challenging him to answer back with a whip of tongue like he always does. The king baits him once more and the sorcerer wonders if he’ll ever be able to unhook himself at all. Merlin hates the angry pinch between Arthur’s eyes and the sharpness in his voice. He hates it all, everything they’ve both become. The sorcerer wants to walk away and prove Arthur wrong. He wants to leave of his own accord, with his own will instead of being ordered away by his king. Merlin does not want to rise to the challenge once again. The sorcerer clenches his teeth; even his damn magic won’t listen to him. It burst out of him like a fucking puppy when he wanted to twist and manipulate, when he wanted to prove Arthur wrong. He wants nothing more than to hurt someone other than himself, to burn and scald anything but his own skin and to send insomnia coursing through another’s veins. But he can’t do it. It’s a curse he wouldn’t wish on anyone.

Merlin yanks his magic to him and he feels it snap back into his veins, the power seeping back into his skin with one last caress of Arthur’s cheek. His king stares at him, breathless when he speaks. “What was that supposed to prove? That you’re a complete and utter girl, Merlin? The rest of Albion and I already know that, you and your pretty shiny lights. When will you grow up and do real magic?” Merlin stares down at the dark wooden floors, the anger building and building inside him like a giant wave seconds from crashing.

When he speaks the sorcerer is calm, his voice is hoarse and weary. Old and so very, very tired. “Why do you never listen, Arthur? You say you do, you say that you hear me, but do you really? Because I am sick and tired of shouting at you above everybody else just so you can hear my voice. You said that I was your friend, that you trusted me with your life. Then why can you not just listen? Listen to me, because all that is unsaid I have spoken but it all just goes unheard by you. I’m tired of yelling, Arthur; sick of waiting for you to see that I’ve given everything for this.” It is unspoken what ‘this’ exactly was, but it hangs in the air between the two men with silence as its companion.

Merlin scoffs under his breath at the look of shock and surprise on Arthur’s face. For one that has been trained to kill since birth and brought on an obscene amount of hunting trips that he imagines requires some sort of special training of the eyes, Merlin cannot believe how blind Arthur truly is.

“I’m going to go on this quest, sire. With your blessing or not.” The sorcerer casts his king one more look before he turns in a flurry of blacks and blues to the dark old door. A strong hand clamps down on his wrist, hard and painful, but Merlin does not flinch. Arthur can be stubborn, but so can he. Merlin tilts his head to meet his king’s gaze, steadfast and stubborn. Two can play at that game. Arthur sees something in Merlin’s eyes, an old flame sparking and igniting, an old obstinacy that makes Arthur shiver from nostalgia. His fingers fall from Merlin’s pale, thin wrist. The king holds his hand to himself, as if burned. Later, in private, Arthur will simply stare at his unscathed fingers and reminisce at the old familiarity of the tingle beneath his fingertips. Maybe he’ll even run them over his lips until the crown calls and he has to be king once more. But until then, he will revel in all the time he’s burned and in all that he could have had.

“You would commit treason against the king of Albion?” His lips form easily over the words, as it should have been, for it is familiar. Uther had uttered those very words a million times, a victory call to the old king’s ears, a death sentence to others. It is the completely wrong thing to ask. Merlin sighs, Arthur still isn’t listening. Merlin simply shakes his head as Arthur continues to stammer and speak; he hasn’t felt this out of control in years. The king can only watch as his sorcerer throws open the door to leave against his will. Arthur tries one last time, his order almost desperate in its nature and call. “Listen to me!”

Merlin pauses as his foot is a step away from leaving the room. The sorcerer smiles a little, a secret smile to no one but himself. It’s worth one more shot. One more call and cry in the darkness. “It’s tiring isn’t it?” A pause. “You know me, Arthur. I’ve never listened to you.” Then he’s gone, hurried footsteps echoing away from the king’s chambers. Arthur leans heavily against the table, his fingers digging holes in the soft, worn wood. The king buries his head in his hands and clutches his arms to himself tightly. His mind races in circles as he hears the echoes of Merlin’s words in his mind. Ringing. Haunting him. When Guinevere comes in and her soft hands caress his face, Arthur has to force his thoughts away from the fading flares beneath his fingertips. Arthur has to wrench himself away from the sting of Merlin’s words. He knows Merlin. Why then did Merlin speak of himself as if he were dead and gone?



Merlin sighs against the door to his chambers, the warmth of his home embracing him like an old friend. The sorcerer smiles as he picks Sebille up and kisses her soft white ears, her happy squeaks the only sound in the room as Merlin feeds her small pieces of leftover cheese. Finally, the sorcerer thinks as he closes his eyes against the gentle tickling of her fur, peace and quiet-

“You cannot go!”

The doors bang open with a whirl of bright reds and gold. Merlin sighs and rolls his eyes, gently slipping Sebille into his large front pocket. The sorcerer turns to look at Gwaine, an eyebrow raised. Fucking knights and their air for the dramatic. They were mighty good at popping in right when they were unwanted. “What do you want now, Gwaine? I’m going and that’s that! I do not need anymore of your help, thank you very much. I am not a bloody child! There is a line and you crossed it weeks ago!”

Gwaine grits his teeth and shoves Merlin against the wall, ignoring his wince as his hurt arm hits the hard stone. Papers fly around them, adding to the mess of the room. Frantic squeakings sound from the inside of Merlin’s pocket but Gwaine ignores it. The knight’s eyes rest on Merlin, and only Merlin.

“You say you can take care of yourself, Merlin, and I believe that. I just don’t believe that you want to. When you finally wake up and see that you’re not alone, that I’m here for you, I’ll back away.” Gwaine doesn’t move back, his breath hot on Merlin’s face. “Until then, I’m staying right here.” Gwaine swipes his thumbs against the dark stains of insomnia under Merlin’s eyes, sighing. “I saw you, you know. With Morgana and Morgause. You let them take you; there was no bloody stone. You let them hurt you, burn and brand you, like a sorcerer at the stake, punishment-”

Merlin squeezes his eyes shut, his fists in tight balls as he beats against Gwaine’s unmoving chest. “Stop. Stop! You don’t know anything!” He could see it behind his eyelids: the bright hot reds of the metals, the hiss and smell of burning flesh - his flesh. Laughter rang; the very same laughter that plagues his mind at night. Merlin could see the cave ceiling, rocky and dark, words for death and pain scrawled on it in blood. His blood. They had wanted, they wanted him to-

Gwaine pushes away. “I don’t know anything, do I? Fine. But I do know this: I’m not going anywhere. And I’m definitely not stopping until you are you again.” With every word Gwaine beat his fist into the rock wall beside Merlin’s head, his dark calloused fingers bruising on impact. Merlin hears a heavy sigh, tired and weary, just like he is. The sorcerer hears footsteps lead away and the creaking of the door before the knight speaks again. “I miss you, my friend.” Then the door creaks closed once more and it’s silent again.

Tears streak his vision as Merlin reaches into his pocket to hold Sebille. Her small white body is trembling slightly, her ears downturned as her shrill squeaks fill the air. “Shhh, Sebille. Shh.” Merlin kisses her warm body, his tears wetting her fur. “It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay,” he promises his companion.

He lies.


(Part 3)