Merlin - The Price of Freedom (Merlin/Arthur) (1/2)
Title: The Price of Freedom (1/2)
Author:
batgurl88
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: ~7,700
Pairing/Characters: Merlin/Arthur (preslash/friendship), Gaius, Gwen, Morgana, Uther
Content Warnings: Depression, magical restraint
Summary: Arthur stares at him, eyes unseeing. The goblet drops to the floor with a clang. Sorcery.
--
A/N: I started writing this in October of 2009 for a prompt on KMM, and began posting it anonymously in September of 2010. Since then, it's mostly been sitting unfinished on KMM, although I kept pushing myself to come back to it over the years. I finally finished it in July of 2018, and decided it was time to de-anon.
Thank you to all of the readers who encouraged me to keep trying over the years (most of whom I'm sure have moved on from the fandom). I'm sorry I wasn't able to finish it sooner for you, but I know I wouldn't have finished it at all without your support!
Originally posted to
kinkme_merlin for this prompt.
---
Arthur stares at him, eyes unseeing. The goblet drops to the floor with a clang.
Sorcery.
"Arthur..." Merlin whispers hoarsely, pleading. "I can explain."
The blood roars in his ears, all other sounds muffled in the face of this betrayal. All he can see is Merlin's face, his eyes wide and scared. Traitor, he thinks. I trusted you.
Merlin makes to step towards him and he stiffens, one hand jumping to the pommel of his sword. Merlin flinches, tears brimming, and Arthur wants to grab him by the tunic and shake him for acting as though he's the one who's been hurt.
"Arthur, I swear- I swear I'd never do anything to harm you or Camelot."
His expression is earnest and innocent, just as it's always been, and it's too much - he can't hear another word. Can't hear another promise from a mouth that has already spewed so many lies.
"Go," he says stiffly. "I don't care where you spend your time, but I don't want to see you again until I call for you."
The pain on Merlin's face is visceral. "What are you going to do?" he prompts.
Arthur shakes his head, overwhelmed. His mind is going in too many directions to think clearly. "I don't know," he says irritably, waving him off. "I need to think. Just- I don't want to look at you right now."
Merlin flinches back again as if he'd been slapped. "Arthur..."
"Just go!" Arthur snaps, glaring at him.
Quietly, he leaves, his hands shaking as they pull the door closed behind him.
The roaring in Arthur's ears has intensified, the sting of betrayal still coursing painfully through his veins. He paces the length of his chambers, at a loss, his thoughts a confusing jumble of no and why Merlin? and I have to report him. But one thought bubbles its way to the surface above the rest:
Is there no one left I can trust?
With a frustrated growl, he grabs a candleholder from the table and hurls it at the wall, watching with satisfaction as it smashes to pieces. The rest of the dinner service follows shortly, and then the decorative bowls and wall-hangings and chairs, until Arthur has run out of things to destroy and is left empty-handed, panting heavily, feeling no better for the mess.
He punches the bedpost, the pain just barely enough to break through the angry haze that surrounds him. With another growl, Arthur collapses onto the bed, his head in his hands.
* * *
It's several days before Arthur summons him again. Days fraught with worry and tense silence and enquiring looks from Gaius as he mopes about his room, brushing off questions about why he suddenly has so much free time on his hands. The face of the messenger who'd arrived at Gaius' door with instructions from Prince Arthur had betrayed nothing, though Merlin takes it as a small sign of goodwill that Arthur had sent a kitchen maid and not one of Uther's guards to greet him.
He takes a deep breath before knocking on Arthur's door - a small formality that has never been observed between them before but now seems impossible to forgo - swallowing thickly as Arthur's voice bids him enter.
Arthur stands before the fireplace, head down as he stares pensively at his closed fist, his face devoid of emotion. Merlin closes the door behind him, his heart thumping loudly in his chest.
For a moment, neither one speaks, the silence weighing heavily between them. Just as Merlin's wondering if he should risk breaking it, Arthur raises his head slightly.
"You're a liar and a traitor."
His voice is flat, strained, and it cuts through Merlin like a knife. He bites his lip to keep from responding.
Arthur turns, his cold eyes staring straight through him. "From the moment I met you, you've shown me nothing but deceit. My father warned me about the treacherous nature of sorcerers, and now I see that he was right."
Merlin shakes his head, stepping forward, "Arthur, please, I'm your friend-"
"It's Prince Arthur, and you're fooling yourself if you think that I could be friends with a peasant, let alone a sorcerer."
Arthur's eyes burn at the interruption, and for a second, Merlin worries that he'll strike him. Then the moment passes, and his expression shutters again.
He straightens, his voice unbearably formal. "You've saved my life in the past, and though your reasons for doing so are not what I once thought they were, I am not so devoid of honour as to ignore the debt owed to you."
Merlin flinches - is this what it all boils down to, in the end? His loyalty and devotion weighed and measured for barter like sacks of grain?
He waits, hardly daring to breath. Waits to hear what repayment his actions have bought him. A quick death, maybe, for his year and a half of service; beheading instead of the pyre. It's a small comfort, but at least it will spare Gaius and the others from hearing his screams as the fire consumes him. Spare his mother the knowledge that she sent her only son to the flames.
The prince looks away, his posture rigid.
"I'm not going to turn you in."
Something worryingly like hope threatens to loosen the knot in his chest, but the grim look on Arthur's face prevents it. He licks his dry lips. "You're not?"
Arthur watches him closely. "On one condition," he says quietly, confirming Merlin's suspicions.
He holds his hand out in front of him, a thin metal bracelet on his open palm for Merlin to see. There's a hole for a key on the outer band. Merlin's stomach lurches.
"What is that?" he asks softly, though he suspects he already knows.
"A restraint from before the great purge. It's used to inhibit magic."
"Where-"
"It doesn't matter how I got it," Arthur interrupts harshly, his eyes dark. "The question is, will you wear it?"
Merlin swallows again, cold dread settling in his stomach. Just the sight of the bracelet makes something revolt inside him, his instincts urging him to run away, refuse. But this is Arthur. Arthur, whom he trusts with his life. Surely he can convince him he means no harm.
He shakes his head hesitantly. "It's not necessary, sire, I'd never use my magic to-"
"I know what you'll say," the prince coldly interrupts again. "You'll say that you only use your magic for good, that it's nothing to be feared. You think others before you haven't tried the same?"
"But it's true!" Merlin pleads, beseeching. "I promise, I'd never use my powers against Camelot."
Arthur's face contorts with anger. "The word of a sorcerer cannot be trusted."
And that hurts more than any physical blow Arthur could land. Merlin winces, lowering his gaze. It feels as though there's a gaping wound inside of him, widening further with each glare Arthur sends his way, and this isn't how it was supposed to go.
Without a sound, he raises an arm, offering his pale wrist to Arthur.
Solemnly, Arthur produces a small key, the power of the bracelet thrumming and making Merlin's magic scream things like wrong and unnatural. He closes his eyes, struggling to keep his hand from shaking despite his fear.
He knows the very second the lock has clicked into place, the force of its power hitting him like a tidal wave, knocking the air from his lungs. He bends forward, clutching his ribs in pain as for the first time in his life, his magic is gone. It's like a door being slammed shut, cutting him off from everything he knows.
Arthur stands passively over him, one hand hovering awkwardly in the air as if it can't decide whether or not to comfort Merlin. Eventually, it drops back to his side, clenching into a tight fist.
"I'm told it takes a bit of getting used to," he says tonelessly, turning away. "That will be all, Merlin."
Merlin can't reply - can't speak - the metal of the bracelet a brand against his skin. A wave of nausea rolls through him, and thoughts of no and please and how could I have agreed to this flash through his mind as he stares at the hard line of Arthur's back. The pain is less than it was when it started, but the world around him has only grown more gray. How can he survive like this?
His vision is blurry, and it takes him a moment to recognize the tears for what they are.
The prince ignores him as he slowly shuffles across the room, each step feeling somehow raw and exhausting. He's just made it to the door when Arthur's voice stops him in his tracks.
"I'll keep my word," he says quietly, his eyes on the roaring fire. "As long as that restraint stays in place, I'll not tell my father about you."
The promise does little to comfort him.
* * *
A small part of him hoped that things would go back to normal between them after that, but he knew it was a foolish wish. There’s no way to return to what once was; no way to put the water back in the jug once it's been spilt.
Merlin returns to his work at Arthur's insistence, though it seems to pain the prince to allow it. He says it’s to prevent drawing unwanted attention, but Merlin feels him tracking his movements like a wild deer and knows he’s being kept under watch. There's rarely a moment of his day that Arthur does not know about, rarely a task that’s not carried out within Arthur's sight. He may not be sitting in the dungeon, but Merlin is under no delusions that he’s free. In agreeing to keep his secret, Arthur has appointed himself his jailer, checking at every opportunity that the bracelet is still in place, though the distrust in his eyes never lessens after confirming that it is.
The worst cut comes when Merlin goes to polish Arthur's sword and armour, only to find it missing from its usual place. Tonelessly, Arthur informs him that he has found someone else to tend to his weapons, the unspoken someone trustworthy hanging in the air between them like an accusation.
Some days he feels like screaming, missing the trust that had come so easily before, but he knows this is his penance. At night, he dreams of running down a long corridor, desperately chasing something he can never catch, his arms growing heavier from the weight of the bracelet until he can no longer move.
He feels the life flowing out of him, his legs growing roots like a tree into the ground, stuck, and Arthur's voice whispering in his ear that he asked for it.
* * *
"Are you all right?"
Merlin glances dully at Gwen, his breath coming out in small, tired pants. The stairs seem longer than they ever had before and the basket of laundry he's carrying might as well be a small boulder.
Gwen frowns, grabbing his arm to steady him when it looks like he's about to fall.
"Fine," he says flatly, feeling anything but. Gaius had tried to assure him he'd be back to his old self with time, but he knew a lie when he heard one. He wasn't himself anymore.
There was a man in Ealdor who'd lost his arm fighting for King Cenred. He would sit in the tavern and grimly recount the battle, his hand occasionally twitching to where the missing arm would have been, claiming he still felt the pain of it despite all the years that had passed.
Now, Merlin knows what he meant. It's like losing a limb. He can feel the absence of his magic almost as clearly as he'd once felt its presence, and he still finds himself reaching for it - just like the old man - startling in pain each time he remembers it's gone.
He'd never realised how long it took to do things the "normal" way - even when Gaius and his mother insisted he try his chores without spells for safety's sake, his magic had often found small ways to help. But if he'd thought his chore load was heavy before, it's nothing compared to now. And even the simplest tasks are made that much harder by the effects of the bracelet, leaving him exhausted and gasping for air that will not come.
Gwen's wearing her worried face, her eyes grazing his ragged appearance.
"Maybe you should ask Arthur for some time off. You're working yourself too hard."
He shakes his head - even if he were on speaking terms with Arthur, he knows he can't afford to mess up now. He needs to be at his best - needs to show Arthur he means no harm. He can still be trusted.
"I can't."
Gwen frowns. "Surely Arthur would understand - I know you two bicker and argue sometimes, but he really does care about you. He wouldn't want to see you hurt yourself."
Merlin wants to laugh, but the sound gets caught in his throat. His grip on the basket slackens, the pile of tunics tipping precariously to one side.
"I'm not so sure about that."
* * *
Merlin steps forward, leaning over Arthur's shoulder to refill his goblet without even being prompted. His hands shake as he tilts the flagon of wine and Arthur's eyes drift towards his wrist out of habit - searching for that flash of dark metal - though Merlin's appearance is probably proof enough of its presence. He can feel Merlin's gaze raking his profile, equal parts pleading and resigned, and he turns away, feigning interest in Sir Galahad's story about the princess and the boar until he can no longer sense his manservant beside him.
His father follows Merlin's retreat with marginal interest.
"Is your manservant quite well?"
Arthur stiffens, his face neutral. He clears his throat.
"As far as I am aware," he says cautiously.
Uther nods, already losing interest in the subject as he pops a grape into his mouth. "All the same, best to have Gaius check him over. If he does have something, I don't want him spreading it to the rest of the castle. We don't need another plague on our hands."
"Yes, father."
* * *
The beast isn't going down easily.
The knights surround it on all sides, spears at the ready, flinching backward as it takes a swipe at Sir Bors. Merlin watches from Arthur's side, on edge, his fingers twitching for a power that's no longer there. Not for the first time, he curses the prince for preventing him from giving help where it's needed.
Arthur is distracted, shouting orders and rallying the defences, his eyes on his men. The monster lets out a bone-shattering roar, and Merlin spots the danger before the others do.
"Arthur!"
He doesn't even think, tackling Arthur to the ground as a claw sweeps the area where he'd been standing. He lands heavily on top of him, pain searing across his back as Leon and Geraint race forward to deal the killing blow.
He's panting, watching as the beast lets out a final death rattle. It all feels familiar, and for a moment, he can almost forget. Forget that this isn't the way things are.
Beneath him, Arthur stirs and shoves him off. Hard.
"Burn the carcass and get the wounded on horses," he orders as he gets to his feet, sparing not a glance for Merlin.
"Sire-"
"You're hurt," Sir Leon interrupts, gracing Merlin with a concerned look. Merlin frowns as the knight runs his gloved fingers across his back, a sharp sting accompanying the movement, the dark leather stained red.
"You're bleeding."
Merlin's eyes seek out Arthur's, but the prince's face is pinched and unreadable.
"See to his wounds," he orders the knight rigidly, stalking off to prepare the beast for burning.
Leon's gaze darts questioningly between the two of them, but he says nothing.
* * *
Later that day, Arthur stares down at the courtyard, arms folded as he leans against the windowsill in his chambers.
He listens as Merlin putters about behind him, too tired to acknowledge the anger Merlin’s silence shouts at him.
"You would have used your magic today, wouldn't you?" he says. "In front of all those people."
Merlin looks up, a tunic slipping from his hands to land useless and flat on the bed. He makes no reply.
Arthur frowns, sensing the unspoken confirmation. Bitterly, he thinks on the fight - how readily Merlin saved his life, nearly at the cost of his own. He would have used his magic against the beast, if he'd been able. Used it, and earned himself a spot on the chopping block.
He looks down, thinking back to the way Merlin had begged, pleaded to be trusted. Believed.
"You'd promise never to use it, but you would, wouldn't you?"
Merlin is silent, but Arthur can hear his answer ringing clearly in the open space between them.
Once a sorcerer, always a sorcerer.
He can see how the future might have been, if Merlin had been left to his own devices. How easily he would have earned himself an execution. How senselessly he'd use magic to solve his problems. How stupid he'd be as to use it in front of the wrong people. Trusting. Foolish.
Merlin has started refolding the laundry, his hands shaking, and the resentment is there, growing a little with each passing day. He no longer doubts Merlin's loyalty, though he suspects the other man's love for him is growing thin.
Arthur turns back to the window, his jaw set. He'd promised he'd protect Merlin, and protect him he would.
Even from himself.
* * *
"Arthur!"
Inwardly, he cringes, recognizing the shrillness of Morgana's voice for the lecture it surely holds.
"Morgana," he greets congenially, continuing down the hall, only slightly slowing his pace to let her catch up. "I take it something's upsetting you?"
Morgana scowls, falls into step with him. "I knew you were a brute, Arthur, but I did not think you a tyrant as well."
"And what horrible atrocity have I committed this week?" he asks dryly, though he knows what it is. He knows.
"Have you seen Merlin recently?" she says. "He's barely a step away from death."
"Don't exaggerate, Morgana," he says, but she's not, much. Merlin's little more than a living ghost these days, his face gaunt and pale, and his eyes as vacant as any corpse's.
"That poor boy would give his life for you in a heartbeat," she continues, dogging his steps. "And yet you insist on working him far past exhaustion. When was the last time you let him have the day off?"
It's been months, but he isn't about to tell her that. She wouldn't understand the importance of keeping Merlin close, keeping him in sight. The less time he has to wander... Well, it's just best not to leave him on his own.
"It's none of your business, Morgana," he says instead, turning a corner. They've reached the door to his chambers and Arthur has no intention of allowing her inside. "I'll ask you to stay out of it."
Morgana draws herself up to full height, her eyes burning with the fire only a righteous cause can grant her. "Be a man for once in your life, Arthur Pendragon, and think of someone other than yourself."
Arthur’s shoulders tighten, feeling the phantom weight of someone else’s secrets. He eyes her darkly.
"I am."
* * *
The days pass without much fanfare, his daily chores blending into one another without the rays of happiness that used to distinguish them. He still sees Gwen around the castle, but their talks are short as he hurries on to the next task, too tired to meet her worried eyes as she follows his weary steps across the courtyard.
He wonders if the sudden decrease in magical attacks on Arthur’s life is a reflection of that. Maybe the bracelet hasn’t affected him alone - maybe the rest of the world's magic was caged away as well. Maybe, in that way, he's still doing his part to protect Arthur.
It's a small comfort.
Three sorcerers have been killed since he let Arthur bind him. He watched every one, forcing himself to remember why he’s doing this, to remember that the alternative is worse. It is, of course it is. It must be.
He clears the table in Arthur's room and Arthur ignores him, stares out the window instead. Like he's nothing, like he's not even there. Maybe he isn't. Some days he can't tell.
They hardly speak to one another except to discuss chores, but Merlin finds he minds the silence less nowadays, the thought of trying to keep up with their old banter leaving him exhausted and worn. He goes about his duties in a tired haze, viewing the world around him as if it were at the other end of a very long hallway, distant and meaningless, every sound and action muffled. He barely remembers what magic used to feel like, what his life was like before this, except that it was different. Better, his mind tells him, though it feels more like habit than actual wisdom. Better or worse, it makes little difference to him now.
If this is what his life is like, he can't remember why he ever fought so hard to keep it.
Now, when he moves, his entire body shakes like a leaf in the wind, every ounce of energy spent in making it through the next task, the next chore. It'll be enough, some day. One day, he'll trust me again.
The dishes clatter as he loads them onto the tray, rattling out an anxious rhythm. He can’t make the tremors stop.
"You can clean the fireplace next." Arthur leans back against the windowsill, using his knife to chip away at the mortar.
He doesn't nod or respond - there's no point, not when Arthur will refuse to acknowledge him, and why waste the energy? He knows there was a time when the brush-off would have hurt him, but he can't bring himself to care any longer.
He walks toward the door, his vision blurring round the edges like fog on a window. It doesn't matter - he knows the room well enough to walk it blindfolded, his hands clenched white-knuckled around the tray.
The dishes fall, crashing to the ground like the goblet so many months before, and Merlin follows after them.
( Part Two here)
Author:
batgurl88
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: ~7,700
Pairing/Characters: Merlin/Arthur (preslash/friendship), Gaius, Gwen, Morgana, Uther
Content Warnings: Depression, magical restraint
Summary: Arthur stares at him, eyes unseeing. The goblet drops to the floor with a clang. Sorcery.
--
A/N: I started writing this in October of 2009 for a prompt on KMM, and began posting it anonymously in September of 2010. Since then, it's mostly been sitting unfinished on KMM, although I kept pushing myself to come back to it over the years. I finally finished it in July of 2018, and decided it was time to de-anon.
Thank you to all of the readers who encouraged me to keep trying over the years (most of whom I'm sure have moved on from the fandom). I'm sorry I wasn't able to finish it sooner for you, but I know I wouldn't have finished it at all without your support!
Originally posted to
kinkme_merlin for this prompt.
---
Arthur stares at him, eyes unseeing. The goblet drops to the floor with a clang.
Sorcery.
"Arthur..." Merlin whispers hoarsely, pleading. "I can explain."
The blood roars in his ears, all other sounds muffled in the face of this betrayal. All he can see is Merlin's face, his eyes wide and scared. Traitor, he thinks. I trusted you.
Merlin makes to step towards him and he stiffens, one hand jumping to the pommel of his sword. Merlin flinches, tears brimming, and Arthur wants to grab him by the tunic and shake him for acting as though he's the one who's been hurt.
"Arthur, I swear- I swear I'd never do anything to harm you or Camelot."
His expression is earnest and innocent, just as it's always been, and it's too much - he can't hear another word. Can't hear another promise from a mouth that has already spewed so many lies.
"Go," he says stiffly. "I don't care where you spend your time, but I don't want to see you again until I call for you."
The pain on Merlin's face is visceral. "What are you going to do?" he prompts.
Arthur shakes his head, overwhelmed. His mind is going in too many directions to think clearly. "I don't know," he says irritably, waving him off. "I need to think. Just- I don't want to look at you right now."
Merlin flinches back again as if he'd been slapped. "Arthur..."
"Just go!" Arthur snaps, glaring at him.
Quietly, he leaves, his hands shaking as they pull the door closed behind him.
The roaring in Arthur's ears has intensified, the sting of betrayal still coursing painfully through his veins. He paces the length of his chambers, at a loss, his thoughts a confusing jumble of no and why Merlin? and I have to report him. But one thought bubbles its way to the surface above the rest:
Is there no one left I can trust?
With a frustrated growl, he grabs a candleholder from the table and hurls it at the wall, watching with satisfaction as it smashes to pieces. The rest of the dinner service follows shortly, and then the decorative bowls and wall-hangings and chairs, until Arthur has run out of things to destroy and is left empty-handed, panting heavily, feeling no better for the mess.
He punches the bedpost, the pain just barely enough to break through the angry haze that surrounds him. With another growl, Arthur collapses onto the bed, his head in his hands.
* * *
It's several days before Arthur summons him again. Days fraught with worry and tense silence and enquiring looks from Gaius as he mopes about his room, brushing off questions about why he suddenly has so much free time on his hands. The face of the messenger who'd arrived at Gaius' door with instructions from Prince Arthur had betrayed nothing, though Merlin takes it as a small sign of goodwill that Arthur had sent a kitchen maid and not one of Uther's guards to greet him.
He takes a deep breath before knocking on Arthur's door - a small formality that has never been observed between them before but now seems impossible to forgo - swallowing thickly as Arthur's voice bids him enter.
Arthur stands before the fireplace, head down as he stares pensively at his closed fist, his face devoid of emotion. Merlin closes the door behind him, his heart thumping loudly in his chest.
For a moment, neither one speaks, the silence weighing heavily between them. Just as Merlin's wondering if he should risk breaking it, Arthur raises his head slightly.
"You're a liar and a traitor."
His voice is flat, strained, and it cuts through Merlin like a knife. He bites his lip to keep from responding.
Arthur turns, his cold eyes staring straight through him. "From the moment I met you, you've shown me nothing but deceit. My father warned me about the treacherous nature of sorcerers, and now I see that he was right."
Merlin shakes his head, stepping forward, "Arthur, please, I'm your friend-"
"It's Prince Arthur, and you're fooling yourself if you think that I could be friends with a peasant, let alone a sorcerer."
Arthur's eyes burn at the interruption, and for a second, Merlin worries that he'll strike him. Then the moment passes, and his expression shutters again.
He straightens, his voice unbearably formal. "You've saved my life in the past, and though your reasons for doing so are not what I once thought they were, I am not so devoid of honour as to ignore the debt owed to you."
Merlin flinches - is this what it all boils down to, in the end? His loyalty and devotion weighed and measured for barter like sacks of grain?
He waits, hardly daring to breath. Waits to hear what repayment his actions have bought him. A quick death, maybe, for his year and a half of service; beheading instead of the pyre. It's a small comfort, but at least it will spare Gaius and the others from hearing his screams as the fire consumes him. Spare his mother the knowledge that she sent her only son to the flames.
The prince looks away, his posture rigid.
"I'm not going to turn you in."
Something worryingly like hope threatens to loosen the knot in his chest, but the grim look on Arthur's face prevents it. He licks his dry lips. "You're not?"
Arthur watches him closely. "On one condition," he says quietly, confirming Merlin's suspicions.
He holds his hand out in front of him, a thin metal bracelet on his open palm for Merlin to see. There's a hole for a key on the outer band. Merlin's stomach lurches.
"What is that?" he asks softly, though he suspects he already knows.
"A restraint from before the great purge. It's used to inhibit magic."
"Where-"
"It doesn't matter how I got it," Arthur interrupts harshly, his eyes dark. "The question is, will you wear it?"
Merlin swallows again, cold dread settling in his stomach. Just the sight of the bracelet makes something revolt inside him, his instincts urging him to run away, refuse. But this is Arthur. Arthur, whom he trusts with his life. Surely he can convince him he means no harm.
He shakes his head hesitantly. "It's not necessary, sire, I'd never use my magic to-"
"I know what you'll say," the prince coldly interrupts again. "You'll say that you only use your magic for good, that it's nothing to be feared. You think others before you haven't tried the same?"
"But it's true!" Merlin pleads, beseeching. "I promise, I'd never use my powers against Camelot."
Arthur's face contorts with anger. "The word of a sorcerer cannot be trusted."
And that hurts more than any physical blow Arthur could land. Merlin winces, lowering his gaze. It feels as though there's a gaping wound inside of him, widening further with each glare Arthur sends his way, and this isn't how it was supposed to go.
Without a sound, he raises an arm, offering his pale wrist to Arthur.
Solemnly, Arthur produces a small key, the power of the bracelet thrumming and making Merlin's magic scream things like wrong and unnatural. He closes his eyes, struggling to keep his hand from shaking despite his fear.
He knows the very second the lock has clicked into place, the force of its power hitting him like a tidal wave, knocking the air from his lungs. He bends forward, clutching his ribs in pain as for the first time in his life, his magic is gone. It's like a door being slammed shut, cutting him off from everything he knows.
Arthur stands passively over him, one hand hovering awkwardly in the air as if it can't decide whether or not to comfort Merlin. Eventually, it drops back to his side, clenching into a tight fist.
"I'm told it takes a bit of getting used to," he says tonelessly, turning away. "That will be all, Merlin."
Merlin can't reply - can't speak - the metal of the bracelet a brand against his skin. A wave of nausea rolls through him, and thoughts of no and please and how could I have agreed to this flash through his mind as he stares at the hard line of Arthur's back. The pain is less than it was when it started, but the world around him has only grown more gray. How can he survive like this?
His vision is blurry, and it takes him a moment to recognize the tears for what they are.
The prince ignores him as he slowly shuffles across the room, each step feeling somehow raw and exhausting. He's just made it to the door when Arthur's voice stops him in his tracks.
"I'll keep my word," he says quietly, his eyes on the roaring fire. "As long as that restraint stays in place, I'll not tell my father about you."
The promise does little to comfort him.
* * *
A small part of him hoped that things would go back to normal between them after that, but he knew it was a foolish wish. There’s no way to return to what once was; no way to put the water back in the jug once it's been spilt.
Merlin returns to his work at Arthur's insistence, though it seems to pain the prince to allow it. He says it’s to prevent drawing unwanted attention, but Merlin feels him tracking his movements like a wild deer and knows he’s being kept under watch. There's rarely a moment of his day that Arthur does not know about, rarely a task that’s not carried out within Arthur's sight. He may not be sitting in the dungeon, but Merlin is under no delusions that he’s free. In agreeing to keep his secret, Arthur has appointed himself his jailer, checking at every opportunity that the bracelet is still in place, though the distrust in his eyes never lessens after confirming that it is.
The worst cut comes when Merlin goes to polish Arthur's sword and armour, only to find it missing from its usual place. Tonelessly, Arthur informs him that he has found someone else to tend to his weapons, the unspoken someone trustworthy hanging in the air between them like an accusation.
Some days he feels like screaming, missing the trust that had come so easily before, but he knows this is his penance. At night, he dreams of running down a long corridor, desperately chasing something he can never catch, his arms growing heavier from the weight of the bracelet until he can no longer move.
He feels the life flowing out of him, his legs growing roots like a tree into the ground, stuck, and Arthur's voice whispering in his ear that he asked for it.
* * *
"Are you all right?"
Merlin glances dully at Gwen, his breath coming out in small, tired pants. The stairs seem longer than they ever had before and the basket of laundry he's carrying might as well be a small boulder.
Gwen frowns, grabbing his arm to steady him when it looks like he's about to fall.
"Fine," he says flatly, feeling anything but. Gaius had tried to assure him he'd be back to his old self with time, but he knew a lie when he heard one. He wasn't himself anymore.
There was a man in Ealdor who'd lost his arm fighting for King Cenred. He would sit in the tavern and grimly recount the battle, his hand occasionally twitching to where the missing arm would have been, claiming he still felt the pain of it despite all the years that had passed.
Now, Merlin knows what he meant. It's like losing a limb. He can feel the absence of his magic almost as clearly as he'd once felt its presence, and he still finds himself reaching for it - just like the old man - startling in pain each time he remembers it's gone.
He'd never realised how long it took to do things the "normal" way - even when Gaius and his mother insisted he try his chores without spells for safety's sake, his magic had often found small ways to help. But if he'd thought his chore load was heavy before, it's nothing compared to now. And even the simplest tasks are made that much harder by the effects of the bracelet, leaving him exhausted and gasping for air that will not come.
Gwen's wearing her worried face, her eyes grazing his ragged appearance.
"Maybe you should ask Arthur for some time off. You're working yourself too hard."
He shakes his head - even if he were on speaking terms with Arthur, he knows he can't afford to mess up now. He needs to be at his best - needs to show Arthur he means no harm. He can still be trusted.
"I can't."
Gwen frowns. "Surely Arthur would understand - I know you two bicker and argue sometimes, but he really does care about you. He wouldn't want to see you hurt yourself."
Merlin wants to laugh, but the sound gets caught in his throat. His grip on the basket slackens, the pile of tunics tipping precariously to one side.
"I'm not so sure about that."
* * *
Merlin steps forward, leaning over Arthur's shoulder to refill his goblet without even being prompted. His hands shake as he tilts the flagon of wine and Arthur's eyes drift towards his wrist out of habit - searching for that flash of dark metal - though Merlin's appearance is probably proof enough of its presence. He can feel Merlin's gaze raking his profile, equal parts pleading and resigned, and he turns away, feigning interest in Sir Galahad's story about the princess and the boar until he can no longer sense his manservant beside him.
His father follows Merlin's retreat with marginal interest.
"Is your manservant quite well?"
Arthur stiffens, his face neutral. He clears his throat.
"As far as I am aware," he says cautiously.
Uther nods, already losing interest in the subject as he pops a grape into his mouth. "All the same, best to have Gaius check him over. If he does have something, I don't want him spreading it to the rest of the castle. We don't need another plague on our hands."
"Yes, father."
* * *
The beast isn't going down easily.
The knights surround it on all sides, spears at the ready, flinching backward as it takes a swipe at Sir Bors. Merlin watches from Arthur's side, on edge, his fingers twitching for a power that's no longer there. Not for the first time, he curses the prince for preventing him from giving help where it's needed.
Arthur is distracted, shouting orders and rallying the defences, his eyes on his men. The monster lets out a bone-shattering roar, and Merlin spots the danger before the others do.
"Arthur!"
He doesn't even think, tackling Arthur to the ground as a claw sweeps the area where he'd been standing. He lands heavily on top of him, pain searing across his back as Leon and Geraint race forward to deal the killing blow.
He's panting, watching as the beast lets out a final death rattle. It all feels familiar, and for a moment, he can almost forget. Forget that this isn't the way things are.
Beneath him, Arthur stirs and shoves him off. Hard.
"Burn the carcass and get the wounded on horses," he orders as he gets to his feet, sparing not a glance for Merlin.
"Sire-"
"You're hurt," Sir Leon interrupts, gracing Merlin with a concerned look. Merlin frowns as the knight runs his gloved fingers across his back, a sharp sting accompanying the movement, the dark leather stained red.
"You're bleeding."
Merlin's eyes seek out Arthur's, but the prince's face is pinched and unreadable.
"See to his wounds," he orders the knight rigidly, stalking off to prepare the beast for burning.
Leon's gaze darts questioningly between the two of them, but he says nothing.
* * *
Later that day, Arthur stares down at the courtyard, arms folded as he leans against the windowsill in his chambers.
He listens as Merlin putters about behind him, too tired to acknowledge the anger Merlin’s silence shouts at him.
"You would have used your magic today, wouldn't you?" he says. "In front of all those people."
Merlin looks up, a tunic slipping from his hands to land useless and flat on the bed. He makes no reply.
Arthur frowns, sensing the unspoken confirmation. Bitterly, he thinks on the fight - how readily Merlin saved his life, nearly at the cost of his own. He would have used his magic against the beast, if he'd been able. Used it, and earned himself a spot on the chopping block.
He looks down, thinking back to the way Merlin had begged, pleaded to be trusted. Believed.
"You'd promise never to use it, but you would, wouldn't you?"
Merlin is silent, but Arthur can hear his answer ringing clearly in the open space between them.
Once a sorcerer, always a sorcerer.
He can see how the future might have been, if Merlin had been left to his own devices. How easily he would have earned himself an execution. How senselessly he'd use magic to solve his problems. How stupid he'd be as to use it in front of the wrong people. Trusting. Foolish.
Merlin has started refolding the laundry, his hands shaking, and the resentment is there, growing a little with each passing day. He no longer doubts Merlin's loyalty, though he suspects the other man's love for him is growing thin.
Arthur turns back to the window, his jaw set. He'd promised he'd protect Merlin, and protect him he would.
Even from himself.
* * *
"Arthur!"
Inwardly, he cringes, recognizing the shrillness of Morgana's voice for the lecture it surely holds.
"Morgana," he greets congenially, continuing down the hall, only slightly slowing his pace to let her catch up. "I take it something's upsetting you?"
Morgana scowls, falls into step with him. "I knew you were a brute, Arthur, but I did not think you a tyrant as well."
"And what horrible atrocity have I committed this week?" he asks dryly, though he knows what it is. He knows.
"Have you seen Merlin recently?" she says. "He's barely a step away from death."
"Don't exaggerate, Morgana," he says, but she's not, much. Merlin's little more than a living ghost these days, his face gaunt and pale, and his eyes as vacant as any corpse's.
"That poor boy would give his life for you in a heartbeat," she continues, dogging his steps. "And yet you insist on working him far past exhaustion. When was the last time you let him have the day off?"
It's been months, but he isn't about to tell her that. She wouldn't understand the importance of keeping Merlin close, keeping him in sight. The less time he has to wander... Well, it's just best not to leave him on his own.
"It's none of your business, Morgana," he says instead, turning a corner. They've reached the door to his chambers and Arthur has no intention of allowing her inside. "I'll ask you to stay out of it."
Morgana draws herself up to full height, her eyes burning with the fire only a righteous cause can grant her. "Be a man for once in your life, Arthur Pendragon, and think of someone other than yourself."
Arthur’s shoulders tighten, feeling the phantom weight of someone else’s secrets. He eyes her darkly.
"I am."
* * *
The days pass without much fanfare, his daily chores blending into one another without the rays of happiness that used to distinguish them. He still sees Gwen around the castle, but their talks are short as he hurries on to the next task, too tired to meet her worried eyes as she follows his weary steps across the courtyard.
He wonders if the sudden decrease in magical attacks on Arthur’s life is a reflection of that. Maybe the bracelet hasn’t affected him alone - maybe the rest of the world's magic was caged away as well. Maybe, in that way, he's still doing his part to protect Arthur.
It's a small comfort.
Three sorcerers have been killed since he let Arthur bind him. He watched every one, forcing himself to remember why he’s doing this, to remember that the alternative is worse. It is, of course it is. It must be.
He clears the table in Arthur's room and Arthur ignores him, stares out the window instead. Like he's nothing, like he's not even there. Maybe he isn't. Some days he can't tell.
They hardly speak to one another except to discuss chores, but Merlin finds he minds the silence less nowadays, the thought of trying to keep up with their old banter leaving him exhausted and worn. He goes about his duties in a tired haze, viewing the world around him as if it were at the other end of a very long hallway, distant and meaningless, every sound and action muffled. He barely remembers what magic used to feel like, what his life was like before this, except that it was different. Better, his mind tells him, though it feels more like habit than actual wisdom. Better or worse, it makes little difference to him now.
If this is what his life is like, he can't remember why he ever fought so hard to keep it.
Now, when he moves, his entire body shakes like a leaf in the wind, every ounce of energy spent in making it through the next task, the next chore. It'll be enough, some day. One day, he'll trust me again.
The dishes clatter as he loads them onto the tray, rattling out an anxious rhythm. He can’t make the tremors stop.
"You can clean the fireplace next." Arthur leans back against the windowsill, using his knife to chip away at the mortar.
He doesn't nod or respond - there's no point, not when Arthur will refuse to acknowledge him, and why waste the energy? He knows there was a time when the brush-off would have hurt him, but he can't bring himself to care any longer.
He walks toward the door, his vision blurring round the edges like fog on a window. It doesn't matter - he knows the room well enough to walk it blindfolded, his hands clenched white-knuckled around the tray.
The dishes fall, crashing to the ground like the goblet so many months before, and Merlin follows after them.
( Part Two here)