Polarity Part 4

[castmeaway]

Part 4

The banquet feels like it goes on forever. Merlin picks disinterestedly at his food, though he manages to remember more of his manners than he forgets. He makes it through his first dance with Arthur relatively unscathed as well. He is pleased to note that some of Arthur’s anger has once again receded, and he is surprisingly gentle as he leads Merlin through the steps with confident hands.

The true surprise, he reflects, as the night wears on, is how often Arthur touches him. Arthur has always been a particularly tactile person. But this is different. He has taken every opportunity to not simply touch Merlin, but to prolong the contact. If Merlin does not find his hand grasped, intertwined within the larger hold of his new husband’s, he finds Arthur’s hands resting on his shoulder, or even low and possessive around his hip.

Though he was surprised by the desire in Arthur’s gaze earlier, this shocking proof has him deeply on edge. There has always been something between them. Something that he’s not sure he could have ever defined before, but then, he doesn’t think Arthur could either. Now that he, they, have both acknowledged Arthur’s want, have permission to do so, Merlin is dismayed to realize that in many ways all bets are quite clearly off.

“Merlin,” Lancelot interrupts his thoughts, coming to offer him an easy smile that is a clear relief from Arthur's overwhelming presence.

“Lancelot.” He dips his head in cordial acknowledgement. Though most of the room has long progressed into a drunkenness deep enough that few, if any, would notice any lapse in etiquette, he feels it necessary to maintain his demeanor, lest he forget altogether.

“How does it feel then?” Lancelot asks curiously. “To be a prince?”

“Not so different than a servant. Just more manners to remember,” he replies in half humor, though he can’t help but smile at his friend.

“You will be a great ruler,” Lancelot tells him encouragingly, “And you’ll make Arthur an even better one.” The words are surprisingly sincere, despite the loose hold to his mouth that tells Merlin that Lancelot is more drunk than he appears.

“The bravest of us all,” he repeats his words from months ago, and pats a hand to Merlin’s shoulder before he makes his way back over to the rowdy crowd of knights, who have faced no reprimand for their earlier actions that Merlin can tell.

He sighs then, the feel of Lance’s pat on the shoulder echoing long after the man himself has gone, so he is startled by another touch when an arm presses securely around his waist from behind.

“Brave he says?” Arthur. Though the words lilt in question, he recognizes that there is no answer to be given, and none wanted. He can also tell that Arthur is drunk, though not so deep into his cups as he was that night in the dungeon.

The day has grown deep into evening, and the banquet hall is lit in the shivering light of a hundred torches set high in the wall, and suddenly Arthur pressed so close feels intimate in a way that pulls high and tight in his throat, matched in equal measure down low in his groin. And he’s surprised by the sudden quickening in his body. He has never reacted to Arthur like this, even in the various intimate poses they have stumbled their way into for one reason or another over the years. But then, he guesses that neither was there ever any actual intent or sanction before either. It is right that Arthur touch him now. The right of a husband. He shivers as he realizes with certainty that Arthur will demand the final binding of him tonight. He hadn’t been sure, though he supposes, given his earlier revelation, that this should not be such a surprise.

“Come on then,” Arthur finally whispers lowly into his ear, pulling away to take up his hand once again, and pull him quickly away from the bustle of the room.

“Should we not…”

“Any other couple would have retreated hours ago,” Arthur says in irritated and half sulky reply. “It is expected for us to leave early.”

And really, there can be no response to that, other than to let himself be dragged down the long familiar corridors to the warmth of Arthur’s room.

~~~

Arthur is surprised at how easily the night flows forward. Merlin is a kind of distracted calm that makes him easily handled, and even more enticing to touch. Something about knowing it is his right and expectation to hold close to Merlin makes it easy to explain away the need thriving under Arthur’s skin to possess.

But he’s frustrated too. His dignity cannot allow him time to either wallow on his emotions or indulge as much as he truly wishes, not when Merlin is so clearly perplexed by the sudden necessity behind Arthur’s claim. The possessive curl in Arthur’s gut urges him to restore the precious and accepted dominance of his relationship to Merlin. He had thought, in his desperation, to restore that balance with the collar, and the disappointed need still racing through his veins is a clear voice to that failure. If anything, Merlin’s surprising grace in his new role, even with his magic gone, leaves Arthur feeling even more wrong-footed than he was.

Truth sits well on his shoulders.

The thought surprises him, though he quickly dismisses it in favor of the slither of jealousy that crashes through him when he notices Lancelot stepping close to Merlin, speaking intimately with him.

“The bravest of us all,” he hears when he steps close, and he wonders briefly at the words, files them away for later examination, and casts Lancelot a possessive look that wards the other away with a faint smile.

“Brave?” he questions, though he needs no answer. He doesn’t want another reason to question his understanding of Merlin. Not right now. He’s grateful that the man in his arms seems to sense this.

Merlin shivers, and Arthur feels the desire between them like lightning. He’s done his best to ignore his needs through the night, and he knows Merlin has as well, though he also seems less aware of it than Arthur, who trembles with a pure want that leaves him breathless.

“Come on then,” he finally says as he presses his face deeply into the smooth, clean, skin of Merlin’s neck.

Soon they are making their way quickly and quietly down the near-deserted corridors to his room, which is something of a surprise when they enter. The servants have been busy, and a dozen candles litter the various surfaces, giving it a pale glow in combination with the warmth emanating from the fireplace. New linens have replaced the old on his bed, and every surface has been polished in a way that Merlin only ever managed when he was upset. A plate of food rests invitingly on his table, and wine has already been decanted, and it is here that Arthur makes his way after releasing Merlin’s hand and leaving him loitering uncertainly near the door.

“Will I be expected to stay here, sire?” Merlin questions softly, uncertainly.

“Hmm,” he hums lowly, pouring himself a glass of wine, and one for Merlin. “Tonight at least. If you are unhappy with the arrangement in future, others can be made.”

Merlin nods, walks forward and takes the goblet that Arthur offers him. His fingers are long and elegant where they wrap around the stem of the goblet, and Arthur has to wrest his eyes away. He settles himself back into his chair, lounges languidly, and he sweeps his hand in invitation for Merlin to do the same in another.

“We should talk,” Merlin starts softly, but Arthur cuts him off with a shake of his head.

“Not tonight.” He lolls his head back, reaches up to loosen the laces of his tunic. “I’m not ready to hear more lies.” If the words are bitter, neither of them acknowledges the fact.

“I…” Merlin startles, looks up at him pleadingly. “No more lies Arthur. I swear it.”

“No,” he agrees, “but you misunderstand me. I don’t want to know about any more lies either. I have been disillusioned enough for a time, don’t you think?” His words are dispassionate, but they don’t distract from his desire, He can’t force his eyes away from the pale firelight that highlights the high bones in Merlin’s cheeks, the sharp cut of his slender body.

Merlin sighs, slumps a bit, and nods. “No. No more disillusionment.” The words are so soft that Arthur’s not even sure he has heard right, and he doesn’t care one way or another.

He sets his goblet carefully down and stands, his stride slow and half predatory as he walks toward where Merlin sits, eyes wide. He traps Merlin in his chair with his body, leans forward to bring his hand to cup under Merlin’s jaw and tip his head up in a sharp angle.

“Arthur,” Merlin breathes.

“Hmm,” he agrees as he leans forward. And Merlin tips a bit unsteadily when Arthur doesn’t kiss him as he clearly expects, and instead presses a wet sucking pressure to the sharp angle at the corner of his jaw.

“Arthur,” Merlin says again, pleading, and perhaps questioning. Arthur ignores the sound for the pounding in his ears, though, and grabs hold of Merlin’s upper arm tightly. He ignores the small pained sound that Merlin makes at this touch as well and hauls him to stand, wraps his other arm securely around the slenderness of his waist.

“Will you yield to me?” he asks into Merlin’s skin, his fingers already working at Merlin’s unfamiliar clothes, easing the heavy cloak away first, and then picking at the ties of his tunic.

Merlin is silent for a long time, his body pliant in Arthur’s hold in a way that does not hinder him, but neither does it aid him in his pursuit. He’s not even sure if Merlin will answer at all, and he spares only the smallest of moments to ponder what he will do if he is denied.

“Yes.” The word breathes out, low and curling in Arthur’s stomach, and he lets it fuel him into a flurry of possessive violence. He pulls his ceremonial dagger easily from its sheath at his side, and Merlin’s eyes widen in surprise, though Arthur refuses to let him step away as he clearly wishes to. The blade slips effortlessly through Merlin’s clothes, and Arthur relaxes his anger at every revelation of pale skin.

“Wait, Arthur,” and Merlin finally forces himself free, steps back, his eyes dark in the low light of the room. “Wait.” Merlin catches his gaze and shrugs his shoulders, lets the ripped cloth slide free and fall to the floor. “I will give you what you want. Only…”he trails off, looks desperately at him, and Arthur sighs as he recognizes the fear in Merlin’s tensed body. He drops his knife. “I’ve never…I don’t know how to please you. I’ve only ever been with women before. Please, if you care about me at all, if you ever cared about our friendship, be easy with me.”

And Arthur winces a bit. In the way that he could not bring himself to sentence Merlin to death, the thought of truly harming him pulls uncomfortably and leaves him feeling guilty, and in a way that none of his other actions have yet forced him to acknowledge. “I’m…” he doesn’t finish the sentence and presses his lips tightly closed. He will not apologize either. But Merlin seems to understand and nods slowly, before moving to hesitatingly work at the lacing of his own breeches. He steps free, his movements surprisingly graceful, and stands with his arms crossed self-consciously across his chest. The only thing still adorning his body, a glint of silver around his throat.

Merlin is a lovely contrast of shadow as he stands naked, and the firelight highlights the deceivingly delicate bone structure beneath the pale expanse of his skin. The thin scars catching and pulling at random places amidst the otherwise-smooth perfection momentarily sidetrack Arthur, but he does not dwell on them, at least for now. Instead he lets himself catalogue the lithe stretch of long legs, the sharp cut of his hips, and the smooth uninterested length between Merlin’s thighs, surrounded by a dusting of soft-looking hair, surprisingly light despite the dark tint to the hair on Merlin’s head. Merlin swallows at the open regard, but drops his arms and backs slowly toward Arthur’s bed, settles himself against the edge, his body splayed open in a silent invitation that Arthur doesn’t feel the need to ignore any longer.

He stalks toward Merlin, feeling strangely disconnected from himself, as if he is watching things from afar. Merlin has gone tense and watches him warily, but he doesn’t move and Arthur steps into the V or his legs, still clothed, though his hands are already itching at the lacings of his tunic. He reaches out hesitantly, his hand a hairsbreadth away from Merlin’s sternum, traces the invisible barrier between them up to finally touch the collar resting against the dip of Merlin’s throat

“You are mine,” he whispers, still feeling disconnected from himself.

“Yes,” Merlin agrees softly, “I have always been for you.”

They don’t say anything else and Arthur steps back a bit to quickly discard his clothes, the material falling to the floor, forgotten. He leans toward Merlin again, then reaches up and hauls him further up the bed, though he stays pressed close. Merlin seems to weigh nothing at all, and Arthur barely feels a burn in his muscles at the action. He feels Merlin strain for him though, his thin body molding against Arthur’s as though they were made to fit, his head tilting for a kiss, some human connection that Arthur can’t allow himself to give. He redirects the movement, turns his head and guides Merlin’s lips to his chest. The contact is hesitant, but inflaming nonetheless and Arthur shivers, encourages Merlin with a firm pressure to his shoulders.

Merlin’s eyes are blown wide when he looks up at him, and the deep hesitation there makes Arthur decide to move quickly forward before Merlin loses his nerve. He flips them suddenly, presses Merlin deep into the mattress on his back, below the bulk of Arthur’s body, and thrills at the small noise that Merlin makes in his throat. Merlin is a long line against the linens of the bed, and his head turned away against the plush pillows offers a strangely lovely profile. Arthur sighs. He’s surprised by the hesitation he feels, but he presses on, traces his hands down to the span of Merlin’s waist, and he uses his hold to arch Merlin’s body up to his, pressed hard against his chest as he mouths at the hollow of Merlin’s throat. The shiver that passes through Merlin is near violent against Arthur, and he increases the pressure, pulls Merlin harder against him with one hand, and traces the other hand lower over the curve of his hips, around to the flesh between Merlin’s legs, which is soft and sensitive against his hand.

“Arthur,” Merlin gasps, rolling his head back, surrendering himself, though he braces the arch of his back with hands pressed deep into the mattress behind him. Arthur groans. He’s overwhelmed by the sheer need that crashes through his veins, and for a moment nothing else matters but his desire. Suddenly every deep fantasy, every secret need is laid bared before him, spread open and easy and surrendered, and a feeling of rightness settles low in his groin, urges him to press Merlin back, fold his legs wide before his hungry gaze. This, this is not a lie, and Merlin’s expression is as naked as he is, as open and achingly honest past the fear and hesitation lining his pupils.

Arthur reaches to his bed stand then, fingers curling around the cool glass of the bottle that Gaius had brought to him, and Merlin shifts back up to his elbows, though his legs remain splayed wide.

Arthur doesn’t dare repeat his request for Merlin to yield. He remains satisfied with Merlin's earlier answer for fear that it might be changed in this heat, though Merlin shows no sign of fleeing or rejecting him.

For all the confident lust driving him on, Arthur will admit, though only to himself, that he is not the most experienced in such matters. He has tumbled a knight or two before, on the long nights of hunting trips, or amidst the fear-trembled nights of campaign, but those trysts were not like this. This is not some battle that needs winning, or, at least not one he can win with violence, for Merlin is not inflamed by the bloody, tense and wild lust that has tinged Arthur’s previous encounters. Merlin needs an easier touch, requires a taming to his hand in the way he might sooth and break a horse. Mind made up, Arthur releases the glass bottle against the bed and shifts his trajectory.

Merlin startles up, offers a low groan when Arthur settles between his thighs, one hand reaching out to trace the soft flesh between them that is slowly and finally showing interest. Merlin is smooth and long here. When he touches his tongue to bitter saltiness, Arthur revels in the sounds he is able to draw forth. He leans his head down then, engulfing Merlin into the heat of his mouth, sucking hard and offering no reprieve. His hand traces back, back further, and circles around to the tightly guarded place of Merlin’s body, though he does nothing but offer a warning pressure there as he continues his wet suckling. Merlin has gone bow-string taut against the bed, hands clenched into the bedclothes, and his head is thrown back behind the strain of his shoulders.

“Oh!” he cries suddenly on a gasping breath, his whole body going so tense that Arthur fears that something will strain, and then Merlin is coming in his mouth. Arthur pulls back in surprise, lets the remaining slick trail into the hollow of his throat. He brings his hand to track through the mess in curiosity, examines the pale milkiness of it before tracing it over Merlin’s lips in a glistening trail that has Merlin’s eyes widening, his lips pushing out in a small pout of surprise that settles in shockingly rapid pulses in his own groin.

He does take up the vial of oil then, pours some onto his fingers half absently as his eyes meet Merlin’s heavy-lidded gaze. They both stay silent, though Arthur can’t bring himself to look away as he pushes the easy spread of Merlin’s legs wider, then back. Merlin is near boneless against him, and the push is easy, as is the slide of a finger into the deep place of Merlin’s body in the way he might first ease a woman, introduce her to the idea of the larger thing he hoped to thrust within. The hot clench around his finger is…Arthur shudders at the heat, the strength of the muscles that hold tight and surrender only grudgingly to the press of another finger, and a third.

Merlin has gone still against the bed, the rest of his body tensing in imitation to the hold around Arthur’s fingers, and all the languid softness has vanished. Merlin sits up on his elbows and looks down at him in wary apprehension, the muscles of his lean stomach trembling, his chest heaving with deep breath.

Arthur keeps hold of Merlin’s gaze as he pulls his hand wetly free, settles it slickly around the hard flesh between his own legs. He crawls up Merlin’s body slowly then, blanketing him, urging Merlin’s legs around his waist with his other hand as Merlin falls back before him, pressed against the bed and a small mountain of pillows. Arthur aches. His whole body is afire with need that blows all thoughts away from him, leaves only the most basic emotions of the moment, the need to conquer, restore his dominance over a servant and a traitor. He needs to fix this betrayal between them.

Merlin reaches up to him, wraps a long fingered hand around his shoulder to pull at him gently, urge him forward for a kiss as he settles his prick against the wet yield of Merlin’s body. He turns away though, settles his mouth into the curve between neck and shoulder, and he ignores the way Merlin tenses, turns his own head away and drops his hands. Arthur feels the spasm of long fingers, Merlin’s whole body, when he pushes inside for the first time. The heat is incredible around him and he groans deeply, feels little need to ignore the insistent desire to take. Though he starts off easy, the pulse of his body into Merlin’s picks up a steady and powerful speed that is driven by his knees and that rocks them both into the heart of the bed.

The whole thing is over quickly, and Arthur bites his release into pale flesh, dazedly admiring the possessive mark that blooms bright and vivid as he collapses to his side, his arms thrown around the trembling body of his bonded, his husband.

He doesn’t see the tears that trail slowly from the corner of Merlin’s eyes.

~~~

Merlin wakes with an ache and a tenseness in his muscles that instantly proves that the previous night was not a dream. Arthur is splayed around him, holding him close, breathing hot and heavily into curve of his neck. Merlin has to struggle to keep from pulling sharply away. Arthur had hurt him. The pain that pulls at his heart is harsh and vivid in comparison to the physical aches. He remembers the way Arthur spoke of disillusionment, and he is sad to realize that this is an emotion that runs both ways, and deeply.

He knows his own wrongs, knows what crimes he has committed, the lies he has told, and the truths that drove them, drive him still. He has paid a price, willingly offered. Last night, he had yielded because he could do no less, all of him is Arthur’s, but he had offered it in trust, and Arthur had…

He shakes his head, his lips tingling with a kiss that never came, a contact that he had hoped desperately would remind Arthur that for all the deceit, for all the wrongs, Merlin is still his friend, still something more to him than a body to conquer.

Of course he is not so stupid or blind that he didn’t recognize the driving force behind Arthur’s conquest of him. For all the things that make Arthur a leader and person of high morals, deeply worthy of respect, he has never dealt well with change, with things outside of the neatly constructed order of his world. Merlin knows he has rocked the very foundation of their relationship, he has turned Arthur’s world upside down, put himself in a position where Arthur feels the need to reassert his dominance, and not just over Merlin, but over a world where destiny and magic and all the things that Arthur doesn’t want to understand are the driving forces to their lives. It doesn’t make the hurt thrumming through his heart any easier to bear, though.

Merlin shifts slowly out of Arthur’s hold, eyeing him warily, stopping for a moment when Arthur’s eyes flutter, then slides the rest of the way free when Arthur stays asleep. He finds one of Arthur’s silk robes and ties it tightly around himself and moves to tend to the coals of the dying fire. He knows that this duty is not his any longer, but the action is familiar and soothing, and the warmth feels good against his chilled skin.

“That is not your duty any longer,” a voice says from behind him, echoing hiss own thoughts, and Merlin gasps and turns sharply around.

“I’m sorry!” he says. “I tried not to wake you.”

“Mmm,” Arthur agrees, watching him with low, hooded eyes. It’s early still, and the sun has not yet reached the high window of Arthur’s room, but Merlin can still make out the easy sprawl of Arthur's body amidst the rumpled blankets. “Come back to bed,” he says, and Merlin tenses slightly, but nods and walks back to the bed, lets Arthur take hold of him and pull him close, his fingers sliding the robe off Merlin’s shoulders, then traveling further down to press against where he is still slick from their coupling the night before. Merlin gasps at the contact and pulls away.

“Arthur,” he breathes softly, shaking his head, “Please no.” Though he doesn’t dare leave the bed entirely, he does move away and curl close into himself. He can feel Arthur’s perplexed gaze against his back, but he doesn’t acknowledge it, says finally, “Dalined is to leave this morning. We should get up soon so we can see him off.”

“Yes, alright,” Arthur agrees, voice tight. He is the one to get up then, to step behind the dressing screen. The sunlight has finally started to slide, tendril thin, into the room. Merlin sighs and closes his eyes to the brightness. “The tailor has sent up some appropriate clothes for you, they are in that chest there."

Merlin lifts his head to see where Arthur is leaning around the screen and motioning to a small chest, then settles back down as Arthur continues to dress.

“Alright,” he acknowledges softly, though he doesn’t think Arthur hears him.

It is not long ‘til they are making their way, side by side down to the courtyard where Dalined and his court are assembled in loose formation. Dalined hugs him warmly, claps a hand to Arthur’s shoulder, bows shallowly to Uther and then he is gone.

Merlin stands tall as he watches the line of Symrians disappear into the long distance beyond his sight. He stands alone on the stairs, Arthur and Uther and any others have long since gone on to their duties. He knows he should leave as well, knows that he is meant to sit with Arthur at court very soon, but he can’t help the wave of sadness that washes through him at watching Dalined gallop away at the head of his delegation. For all that the man was strange to him, he was still family and that is something Merlin has precious little of. There was something strangely comforting about his calm acceptance of Merlin, something that he receives from no one else but his mother, who had been invited to the wedding, but had been unable to leave Ealdor’s harvest.

My place is here, my darling boy. The life you have inherited is not one that I was ever meant to know.

The words of the missive repeat like a chant through his head, and for a moment he envies his mother’s ability to turn away from this life, this destiny, that has been handed to him.

“Merlin,” Gwen says behind him. He turns, smiles faintly at Gwen and doesn’t look back when she leads him inside.

~~~

Merlin stumbles, leans heavy against the dining table with shaking arms. The pain is getting worse, straining the muscles at the corners of his mouth, leaving dark bruises under his eyes that he covers up with mineral powders that a frowning Gwen gave him.

He straightens his shoulders abruptly when he hears the door open, and the sound of someone- Arthur- entering amidst the quiet hush of the cool night. Merlin offers a ghost of a smile up at him, before turning away and settling into a chair, his hands clenching into fists to hide their trembling.

“Merlin,” Arthur acknowledges, and Merlin frowns. The tightness in Arthur's voice and the hold of his shoulders isn’t right and tells him that something is wrong.

“My father,” Arthur starts, stops.

He prowls towards Merlin, traps him against the chair, traces a finger to press too hard into the hollow of his throat. Merlin shivers and half gasps, closes his eyes and surrenders, lets Arthur pull him up, strip his clothes away in impatient tugs.

Arthur still won’t kiss him, still won’t talk to him. He takes from Merlin, relaxes his stress in the yield that Merlin offers him, and otherwise ignores him. Merlin feels like little more than a glorified, alienated, statue at Arthur’s side, and a warm body in his bed. He shudders suddenly when Arthur lowers him, a hand pressing between his thighs, and lets his thoughts bleed away, his pain shutter-tight behind his closed eyes.

Hours later, Merlin wakes to cool air licking a long line along his spine and the realization that Arthur is no longer in the bed. He lifts his head, spots the shadowed form dressing in a haphazard frenzy.

“Arthur what’s wrong?” he asks, sitting up.

“My father…” Arthur chokes, picking up the thread from earlier in the nigh, though he fails to finish it yet again.

Merlin winces and closes his eyes, nods, though he knows Arthur cannot see it. He had wondered, of course, suspected deep within. Uther’s presence in court had been erratic at best over the last weeks, and he had become more and more irrational when he was there. When Uther had apparently broken into a fit of pale faced rage not two days prior, Arthur had gone distant, and the court had erupted in a surge of whispered gossip and wary concern. Arthur in turn had spent nearly every waking moment that he wasn’t taking some comfort from Merlin’s body, sitting at his father’s side. The shadows under the prince's eyes are not so different a shade from the one’s beneath Merlin’s own.

“Gaius doesn’t think he will…” Arthur chokes, then turns abruptly back to the bed, his eyes blazing in the cool dark, his voice a perfectly controlled rasp. “If you could,” he starts, his finger catching and pulling Merlin an inch off the bed by the metal at his throat, “If you had your… Would you save him?” His voice is charged, ordering Merlin to make true what they both know to be impossible.

Merlin doesn’t say anything, startles him instead when he surges up and wraps his arms tightly around Arthur’s body. Arthur sags into him for a long moment, lets Merlin hold him, before he stiffens and jerks away. He casts Merlin a long and inscrutable look before he sweeps out of the room.

~~~

The meeting has been dragging on for a while, and Arthur subtly stretches his back in discomfort. Despite the fact that the harvest is in full swing, and winter still some time away, they are already discussing the matter of rations and other issues relating to the upcoming season. For now things are only really getting sketched out in vague terms, but these are not matters that can stand to wait. Winters are notoriously bad in Camelot

“Perhaps Merlin might take over the matter,” Arthur suggests with a sudden hit of inspiration, his voice perfectly reasonable and impersonal. Merlin needs to learn how to handles such matters of state and people eventually, and this is a perfect place to start. Many of the details are yet to be planned out, but enough people are also already familiar with the process, from years past, that there should be ample help for his husband, if he needs it.

He is not yet ready to openly show any reliance in Merlin, but he is also not so proud that he doesn’t recognize the other man as a resource that should be taken advantage of, if possible. Arthur is only one man, after all, and such duties would aid him greatly, if Merlin can handle them.

He is not prepared then, for his father’s sudden, violent, tirade.

“That sorcerer,” Uther spits, “will have his hand in the running of this kingdom over my dead body!” The words continue in a harsh stream after that, getting more and more vague as Uther continues. He has long since progressed from speaking about Merlin, and speaks of sorcerers in general with a paranoia that, for all his father has ever been immovable on the matter of sorcery, is still startling to Arthur.

And then… Arthur gasps in shock and stares wide-eyed when his father, face red and eyes hard, cuts off mid-tirade with a stumble and a hand pressed to his chest.

It takes Arthur a moment to understand what is happening, to collect himself.

“Send for Gaius!” he yells, suddenly, as he snaps quickly back into the moment. “Now!” He is at his father’s side then, and he eases him back into his chair and hovers worriedly, continues to do so even when Gaius arrives and shoots him glances half exasperated, half worried.

“He needs to rest,” Gaius finally says. “I can do no more for him here and it is best that he secludes himself anyway.”

Arthur nods and shrugs his father’s arm around his own shoulder, leading him at a slow pace toward his private chambers. Gaius follows them, calmly, if sternly, reciting off a list herbs, water, blankets, things that Arthur suspects are only useful for the way they are meant to comfort Uther, but also Arthur that something is being done.

So it is two days later, and Arthur stares down at the ghostly countenance of his father. Uther is breathing in short stuttered rasps and Arthur is struck again by how withered he looks, how drawn. He had hoped, hoped desperately, that the time had not come for him to take up his father’s crown. He had clung to that hope even as Gaius began casting him increasingly desperate and pitying glances.

He had barely left his father’s side, taking only brief respites to sate his frustration and fear in Merlin’s body, or see to the minimum of duties that could be handled by no one else.

“Sire,” Gaius says lowly, looking drawn and tired himself. Arthur shifts and half turns to look at the old man. He knows things are bad. Even if he could not see it for himself, he would know by the pained and weary look painted across Gaius’ exhausted countenance. “You should begin making preparations to take up the crown,” Gaius finally offers. Arthur can do nothing more than nod slowly and close his eyes in silent resignation.

He sits with his father now, having only just left Merlin staring forlornly after him in the deep hours of the morning. He knows, deep in his heart, that his father dying is a reality that he can no longer disregard. He can’t ignore the way his father’s breath grows more and more ragged, tugging on Arthurs own lungs in pained sympathy, or the way Uther’s eyes roll crazily behind the closed blinds of his eyelids. And finally, finally, it’s too much. Arthur pushes himself roughly from the chair in the early light of the dawn, his legs aching to pace, and turns to where Gaius is slumped in a chair across the bed.

“Enough,” Arthur croaks, his voice rough, “Enough. Can you end this?”

Arthur remembers once, long ago, his father asking Gaius for the same thing. He remembers the old knight, though his name is long since gone from Arthur’s memory. He remembers the man’s pale face though, and the way he had screamed at things no one else could see, though he never truly woke up, never recognized the face of his wife as she sat sobbing at his side.

Arthur knows, somewhere deep in his bones, that his father does not want this. The strong and proud man that he remembers from his childhood would not want to waste away in body and mind, lying indefinitely amidst the frills and comforts of a death bed.

His heart hurts, but he is not so cruel that he will keep his father for the sake of his own comfort.

Gaius gives him a long look through the droop of his heavy brows and nods. He looks for a moment as if he means to protest, but the old man has an uncanny ability to read the hearts of others, and Arthur thinks that maybe Gaius understands. He watches, breathless in the heavy heat of the king’s rooms, as the old physician slowly draws forth a small glass medicine bottle, the liquid within glinting in the pale shine of a new morning.

~~~

Arthur stands, straight backed as the crown, his father’s crown, is settled heavily against his brow. Merlin sits back in his own throne, a smaller one that had once belonged to Arthur’s mother, and Arthur finally steps backwards and sits, his hand reaching to formally take hold of Merlin’s as the room rings out loudly with, “Long live the king!”

His father is dead and he is king now, and he shivers, grips tighter to Merlin’s fingers as the cry rings out again and again. He’s not sure if he is ready, for all that he knows deep in his heart that he will be a better king than his father. Uther was strong, and that moment, Arthur resolves to be just.

Even as he is thinking these things, however, everything suddenly goes quiet and the two double doors at the opposite end of the halls clang sharply open on an impossible wind. Morgana stands in the doorway, her black gown a startling contrast to her pale skin and bright eyes. Her hand is outstretched still, from the magic she used to force the doors open with a surge.

“Long live the king, indeed,” Morgana purrs low, though the sound echoes strangely around the room.

Arthur lurches to his feet at the sight of her, his eyes slitted in wary anger, even as the knights rush to stand like a wall at the base of the stairs between their king and the slowly advancing sorceress.

Arthur is barely aware of Merlin’s sudden low, wailing cry, but he does startle as another figure appears in the doorway, blond hair swaying, though even from here Arthur can see that something is wrong. Morgause moves with strange jerky steps and there is nothing in her eyes. No recognition of her surroundings or the moment. The familiar haughtiness that Arthur has long come to associate with the sorceress is nowhere to be found for the slave-like deference that she is giving to Morgana.

“Morgana!” he bellows, drawing his ceremonial sword free from its jeweled scabbard. “What do you want? How dare you show your face here.”

“Hmm,” she smirks at him. “I should think that what I want would be obvious. I’m so sorry about Uther.” Her voice twists in mocking insincerity. “I think it’s time for Camelot to enter a new era. It’s a shame you won’t be here to see it.”

He shifts his body as she speaks, moving subtly to stand in front of Merlin who has doubled over in his throne. A sparking ball of light is forming in Morgause’s hands, where she has come to stand next to Morgana, and Arthur feels his eyes widening at the sight. Fear sizzles through him for only a moment, though, before he tamps it deep and rushes toward the two women to strike at them, before they can release pain and suffering upon someone else whom he cares about.

Except, his body jars sharply against some invisible barrier, and magic cracks along his skin in a painful spasm that distracts him for one near-deadly moment. He only manages to startle out of his pain when an arm suddenly wraps around his waist and pulls him in a tumble to the floor, Merlin’s slim body pressing him down in an action he had not been able to execute himself. The flaming ball of witch flame, only narrowly avoided with Merlin’s help, still leaves two knights groaning in scorching pain. Morgana's smirk widens in a way that discomfits him as he warily pushes himself up from the floor, and he worries that she doesn’t seem concerned in the least that he managed to evade their attack.

In fact, Morgana doesn’t acknowledge him again at all, and her cold gaze fixes on Merlin instead, who is still collapsed, curled around himself as if in pain that a simple fall to the floor could not explain.

“Merlin,” she drawls, “tell me how it feels not having your magic, to be forced to deny a piece of yourself? I must thank you for that, by the way.”

Merlin merely groans, his body suddenly arching in gasping pain even as another ball of blue flame begins to form in Morgause’s palms.

“That lovely little piece of jewelry is my design, you know,” she says conversationally.

Arthur frowns at her. Half of the knights have taken the opportunity to stand around Merlin, still crumpled on the ground, and the other half surround him, though they shift anxiously. None can get close enough to the two women to apprehend them, though a few of them have tried, and to the same painful result that still twists beneath his own skin.

“I don’t understand,” he jumps in, trying to win some time, to think. He needs to figure out how to distract the two women from Merlin’s seeming helplessness. There is a confidence to the straightness of Morgana's back that worries him. And Morgause…Morgause who looks wrong with her vague eyes and blank expression, is powerful. He had thought her so before, but the edge to the magic crackling around her, prickling wildly potent, but also strangely familiar along his skin, is suddenly terrifying.

“Do you not?” she asks mockingly. “And to think, it is all your fault. That collar you have placed around your,” she hesitates, then all but spits, “husband, allowed me to bring my Morgause back to me. I needed a source of magic you see, and there are none more powerful than Merlin. It made my plans so very sweet to know that the very magic that doomed her in the first place,” and Arthur frowns in confusion at this statement, “was to be the magic to save her.”

She is smiling in a way that is so unfamiliar that it brings home to his heart how truly gone she is from the women he had known for so long. Or thought he had known. And Arthur understands, a sudden shocking comprehension that slashes through him, pulls tight in his throat so that he can barely breathe. Morgause is dead. At least, close enough. The vagueness in her eyes, the stumble to her limbs all adds up to a creature that isn’t the once fierce and proud sorceress, but something else, something animated by magic. Merlin’s magic. Her soul is gone, and Arthur is terrified by the madness that it takes for Morgana not to realize.

The witch light still palmed in Morgause’s hands suddenly flares, even as Merlin cries out in tandem, and then it is hurtling toward them again. Arthur is ready this time, however, as are his knights, and they duck away so that the light bursts bright and hot at the wall behind them, harmless.

The thing is, Arthur is not sure how to battle this. A few of the knights have made moves toward the women again, but the invisible wall of magic still stands between them, bubbling Morgana and Morgause away. The two women- Morgana- takes the time to leisurely keep up her taunts, even as the magical balls of light continue to rain destruction throughout the room, though the people have long since fled, leaving only the knights to dodge their deadly magic.

Arthur has the distinctly bad feeling that she is doing little more than playing with them. A cat tormenting her prey, before the end.

With the knowledge that there is little he can do at this point, that he has no way to fight this, the need to see to Merlin finally overwhelms him and he dodges another attack to hurtle toward the small group of knights, his knights- Leon, Gwaine, Lancelot, Elyan, Percival and the Symrian knight Karl. They have taken up posts around Merlin, though they let him through. He stumbles to his knees, eyes wide at the sight of Merlin, all but writhing on the floor.

“Merlin,” he calls desperately, and Merlin opens his eyes, which are glowing a fierce and strange gold, even as another spasm rips through his body.

“Arthur. Gods! She’s dead.” Merlin chokes, “she’s taking my magic.”

“I know.” Arthur can think of no other answer. He understands what he needs to do now. “The key!” He says urgently to the knights standing guard around them. “We need the key!” Their only chance now is to free Merlin, hope that he has the strength to fight where swords are useless.

He nods as Lancelot slips away, and Arthur can only hope that he will return in time.

~~~

Merlin thinks he hears Arthur calling his knights for a key, but the truth that sits in Arthur’s eyes as the man cradles him on the ground, soothes over his too tight skin, is of uncustomary defeat.

“If I take this off,” he whispers quickly, fingering at the collar, “can you fight them?”

Merlin can't answer. His eyes cast to where the two women have made their way up the dais where Arthur is all but cradling him, and he realizes that this is the end. The knights are jerked suddenly away from them with magic, and though they beat at the barrier that has extended to he and Merlin with their swords, it is a useless endeavor

“I’m sorry. You tried to tell me,” Arthur chokes. “You are not her.”

“How very sweet,” Morgana says, in mock saccharinity, “the two lovers shall die together then.”

And in that moment, Merlin can think of nothing but, “Fuck that!” He has longed for Arthur to look at him like this. He doesn’t want to die, not when things might be made right, finally. Uther is dead, and for all that Arthur has been a wreck for it, a weight has lifted from his shoulders as well. Camelot is changing, and suddenly Merlin can think of nothing but the dragon’s words. He still has a destiny.

He grinds his teeth against the surging of another wave of his power ripping away from him, moans into Arthur’s chest. He clings to Arthur desperately, draws strength from him to do something.

As the power is forced away from him, he follows it backwards. He can’t access it, but maybe…he follows that invisible river inside of himself, then deeper, and gasps, though not in pain. He has never before fully known the limits of his power, and he realizes in that moment that there are none. He knows that some magics work for him and others do not, some spells are more difficult and others are very easy, but in this moment he understands something he never has before. He’s not sure if it is a personal truth, or one that is true for all magic users, but the magic within him is more than himself. If the collar has damned the river that he draws from, beyond that, beyond that is an ocean. He has never gone so deeply into the magic before, so deeply into the very land, but he understands now that what Morgause and Morgana are taking from him are merely the remnants of what was within him before they blocked him from this limitless source. The magic they are taking is his only in the sense that it was what was within him when the collar cut him off from the very world, the land and the old religion, but the magic is still there. Not just his, but all the magic.

He is vaguely aware of the two women standing over them, deadly intent in their eyes.

Merlin reaches into that ocean where it has built up and up against the dam of the collar, and it is so very easy then to just push from that side, to gather and gather that strength and then force it against the flimsy spells so arrogant to think they could withstand this.

He screams again, in tandem with Morgause who has uttered nothing until that moment. Magic tidal waves through him, arches his body as it batters against his skin. With no other outlet, it follows the lines of power between him and Morgause.

And then, just as quickly as the magic rushed over him, it recedes.

He is dimly aware of screaming, Morgana screaming now, of the deep scorch marks on the ground where Morgause once stood, before blackness overtakes and he knows no more.

Merlin wakes slowly, groans as he becomes aware of the ache thrumming through his entire body.

“Merlin?”

He blinks open his eyes and frowns up at a concerned-looking Arthur.

“Arthur,” he says slowly.

“Oh gods, I’m glad you’re alright.” Arthur says, shoulders sagging in relief. “We were so afraid for a while.”

“Afraid?” Merlin is confused, knows he sounds it. “What happened?”

“Don’t you remember?” Arthur asks carefully, reaching out to smooth a strand of hair away from Merlin's brow.

“Umm…” Merlin hesitates, and then he does. “Morgana and Morgause,” he says slowly, “They attacked us, only…Morgause wasn’t really alive, was she?”

Arthur shakes his head in answer, “No I don’t think so. And then you did…something to her. Do you remember what you did? Gaius has a theory,” Arthur shrugs, “She just suddenly exploded.”

“And Morgana?” He remembers her screaming like she had when Morgause was first injured.

Arthur hesitates. "I think she was frightened and upset by what happened to Morgause. Whatever she was doing to keep the knights away from her faltered, so they tried to apprehend her.”

“But they didn’t?” Merlin guesses.

“No. she said we would pay for what we did and then she just…she vanished.”

Merlin nods, sighs and settles back against the bed. He is suddenly aware of the weight of the collar still around his neck, and his throat tightens at the knowledge that, despite everything, Arthur has still not removed it. The spells draining his magic have been destroyed with Morgause, this he knows with a certainty, but when he reaches for his magic, calls it to his fingertips, it will not come

Arthur must see his fingers flexing, or at least see something in the resigned hold to his body, so his next words are strangely gentle, and something of a surprise.

“The key doesn’t work.”

Merlin frowns, “What?”

“The uh, the key to the collar. It doesn’t work. I tried to remove it immediately.” Arthur shrugs and offers Merlin a tentative smile.

“Oh.” The air feels stilted around them, heavy with betrayals on both sides that Merlin isn’t sure how to deal with. Those feelings settle heavy around him and add atop the sorrow that he might never get his magic back, although, at least Arthur is apparently willing to allow it.

“You still can’t use your magic can you?” Arthur asks gently, “We had hoped that whatever you did to Morgause might destroy the properties of the collar as well, but we weren’t sure.”

“No.” he replies softly. “No, I can’t.”

Arthur nods at this and sighs. “Gaius suspected that might be the case. He figures that whatever you did to Morgause only destroyed the spell leaching your power into her, but didn’t actually do anything to the ingrained properties of the collar that keep you from accessing your magic.”

Merlin sighs and offers a small, forced smile up at Arthur. “It’s okay.” He’s not sure if it is, really, but it doesn’t matter.

Only, Arthur’s eyes widen and he starts to shake his head in surprised horror. “Oh. No. You misunderstand!” he says quickly, awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to make you think…”

Just then, the door to the room opens and Elyan walks into the room, a large leather bag of tools clutched in his hands. He is wearing his heavy, leather blacksmith's apron, and there’s a feint smudge of soot along his cheek.

“Merlin,” Elyan says, smiling, “It’s good to see you awake. Let’s see what we can do to get that thing off your neck, hmm?” Merlin turns to look sharply up at Arthur, who has an apologetic but kind look on his face.

Merlin looks up at him with wide eyes, but nods and obediently tilts his head back to allow more room for Elyan to work. And it’s only a matter of a few tense moments, with Arthur gripping his hand tightly, before the lock breaks and the metal loosens around his throat.

“Done,” Elyan chimes in with a bright smile as he moves to slip the collar away. Arthur stops him with a hand over the other man’s deeply-callused ones, though, and Merlin’s eyes widen. Has Arthur changed his mind? The question burns in his gut for only a moment, before he catches Arthur’s wide eyes, holds them, as carefully confident fingers work the metal free and Arthur lifts the collar away himself.

“I should never have put this on you in the first place,” he says softly. The gentle look on his face causes Merlin’s heart to stutter in a way he hasn’t known since before Dalined’s arrival in Camelot. Since before everything happened, before Arthur knew about his magic. “You are not her, Merlin.” Arthur says softly, and then, more hesitantly, “I trust you.”

And he sees that Arthur does. He recognizes that they have a long way to go before they are okay again, before things are comfortable. There are conversations they still have to have, and betrayals that must still be addressed, but he also sees that something has clicked in Arthur’s eyes. There is a warmth to him that Merlin hasn’t seen for a long time. His gentle touches have not only the possessiveness of Arthur’s desire, but also a tenderness that Merlin can do nothing but lean into.

Merlin smiles up at Arthur, even as he feels his magic flow bright and easy through his veins.

~~~

Arthur grips tight to Merlin’s fingers as Elyan bends close, a look of concentration on his face as he works at the lock of the collar. Merlin has closed his eyes, and he takes a moment to study him, admire the graceful curve of Merlin’s long neck.

And then it’s done, and before he can even think about it, he finds himself reaching out to stop Elyan from removing the collar. He needs to be the one to do this. Elyan nods and backs away, doesn’t say a word as he slips quietly from the room, a fond, indulgent look on his face.

“I should never have put this on you in the first place,” Arthur says softly, and he smiles hesitantly at Merlin as he lifts the offending collar, strangely cold to the touch, away. In this moment of clarity, free from the haze of alcohol, the thing feels wrong as he holds it for only the second time. It leaves his skin prickling uncomfortably, and he doesn’t hesitate to toss it away in disgust, even as he says, “You are not her, Merlin.” And then, because he can say nothing else. “I trust you.”

And he does. He understands now, flashing back to that moment when Morgana and Morgause stood over them, ready to strike their final blows, how deeply different Morgana and Merlin are. Even writhing in pain, Merlin had managed to save him, as he had done so many times before, had Arthur only allowed himself to see. Gaius had confirmed that as they sat waiting for Merlin to wake. Merlin had a strangely alluring power like that, willing to do anything, everything, to protect Arthur, despite his pain, despite the way Arthur had treated him.

He had tried so desperately to shut Merlin out, to use him and let it be the end of their interactions…but seeing Merlin’s hesitant smile now, feels right in a way he hadn’t known for a small eternity. Somehow merlin has grown into someone who sits graceful under a crown, stands loyal at Arthur’s side, for everyone to see, though he can’t help but wonder how much of that is merely a matter of his own perceptions changing. And now, with Merlin’s magic crackling under his skin as well, he looks at ease in a way that Arthur has never known from him before. He can’t help but wonder how much of Merlin’s behavior as his manservant had been farce, a carefully constructed front of too-bright smiles and foolishness.

“Will you show me?” he finally asks, curious. He suddenly wants to see Merlin use his magic, unafraid and confident in his power, and he is not disappointed. Merlin hesitates for only a brief moment before his eyes flash bright gold and suddenly a dozen flames from the candles scattered around the room fly free. The lights dance in an intricate pattern for a long moment, before they settle back into their natural position with another flash of Merlin’s eyes.

He smiles at the trick, though he thinks there might be some story behind this little bit of magic, for the shadow lurking in Merlin’s eyes. He wonders at it, and stores the moment away for later thought.

“You literally blew Morgause up,” he says in gentle mocking, amused that, for all his seeming power, Merlin chooses to do a simple light trick for him. It’s all a very Merlin thing to do, though, so he’s less surprised then perhaps he should be. In fact, he’s pleased even, to see such silly and playful use for magic, when most of his experiences with it in the past have gone so badly. “So you’re powerful. Yet when I ask you to show off, you do…that.”

“Magic isn’t all about destroying things,” Merlin replies softly. “I mean, I can protect you. Kill, if I have to…but sometimes,” he hesitates, lowers his voice, “sometimes magic can be that too. Pretty and simple, and just because it’s good for the soul.” Color has flushed high in Merlin’s cheeks with the conviction of his words. “Magic doesn’t have to be evil.”

Arthur sobers at Merlin’s impassioned words. He’s starting to understand that, starting to truly see the gentleness in Merlin’s heart, and the passion and compassion that has always driven his use of magic. He thinks he’s always known this, but he had been too blinded by his anger and sense of betrayal to see the hurts he had been inflicting in his turn, lashing out like a slighted child and striking in the ways he knew would be most painful.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, and Merlin’s eyes widen in surprise.

“Arthur, you have to know,” Merlin starts, desperately, momentary courage making words tumble out of his mouth, “I would never hurt you, and I swear, I didn’t know about Balinor. I mean, I knew he was my father, but I didn’t know…I didn’t know who he was. I didn’t mean to trap you into this marriage, and I never meant to betray your trust.”

Arthur frowns. Some of that he had been expecting. “You didn’t know about Balinor?” Merlin shakes his head slowly. I didn’t even know he was my father until right before we set out to find him.

“Shit,” Arthur says, because he has learned about a hundred different ways in which Merlin has saved his life over the last several years, but this is a revelation that Gaius had not mentioned, and that he had not expected. He can’t imagine what it must have felt like for Merlin to gain a father, and lose him in such a short amount of time, only to find out later that that father came with such a dramatic heritage.

And then, suddenly another part of Merlin’s statement stands out to him, and he quickly says, “I don’t regret marrying you. I don’t regret being able to. We’ve done this wrong, we’ve hurt each other, but I…I care about you Merlin. I have always cared about you and I don’t regret something that allows me the chance to have you.”

Merlin’s eyes widen at that, and he opens his mouth to say something, closes it again, and Arthur can’t help but smile at the image of a speechless Merlin.

“I know I’ve hurt you, and if you…”

“No.” Merlin interrupts him, his face blank.

“Ah. I understand…”

“No, I won’t leave you, you prat! No, I don’t hate you. No to however you were going to finish that sentence.” Merlin’s mouth is pinched tight, but his eyes have a soft warmth, and he reaches a hand gentle to Arthur’s cheek.

“Kiss me.” It’s not a question, but Arthur has the distinct feeling that Merlin is waiting for an answer all the same.

He hesitates for only a heartbeat, before he is leaning toward Merlin, brushing their mouths together in a shock of contact that spikes down low in his spine. He hasn’t kissed Merlin since the wedding, hadn’t been able to allow the contact, for fear of what it would reveal. He had known, in those soft intimate moments, that if he let himself kiss Merlin, it would barely be anything at all to give in again, and again and again, until Merlin had once again taken over every part of his life. He had clung to his anger like a lifeline then, but it is no thing at all to let himself go, let himself take up a new one in the spice of plush lips pressing to his own.

Merlin sighs into his mouth, and in the smoothing of his muscles under Arthur’s hand, he is surprised to feel something like forgiveness.

His own hands cupping Merlin’s cheek offers the same.

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