More Merlin...
AUTHOR:Fee Folay
FANDOM: Merlin
TITLE: Life’s Fitful Fever
CATEGORY: GEN
SETTING: Canon- Season 2ish
SUMMARY A search for a raiding party proves successful.
WARNINGS PG for violence.
Additional Notes under the cut.
Author’s Notes: In light of episode 4.12 of Merlin, I finally decided to publish this story. It’s been languishing on my hard drive for a while now, but never felt quite finished. There is just something about it that does not sit right with me, but I haven’t been able to figure out the reason for my dissatisfaction. Perhaps because it is such a short piece, and I am used to writing much longer stories. However, “The Sword in the Stone: Part One” has proven to be the motivation I needed to tidy it up and send it on its way. Much as in 4.12, this story touches upon the possible consequences of Merlin’s secret use if magic in relation to Arthur… how will his sorcery affect their relationship and the trust between them? Apparently, my conclusions on the issue are somewhat different than those of the show writers…
Make of that what you will.
*****
Life’s Fitful Fever
Merlin killed a man today.
A good man.
A knight.
Little more than a boy really. A boy who wanted nothing more than to serve his kingdom with honor.
It wasn’t deliberate.
He hadn’t meant to.
He felt terrible about it.
But…
If he had to do it again?
He would.
And that made him feel worst of all.
*****
The attack came without warning. At least that was how Merlin saw it, though perhaps he should have been expecting something since the scouting party had been sent to out to investigate reports of raiders in the area. He did wonder if Arthur hadn’t had some sense of impeding danger. The prince had been out of sorts since dawn, shoulders tense, mouth flat and tight. His words, when he did speak, had sliced through the air- icy, sharp, and flaying, holding not a glimmer of the playful warmth Merlin knew lurked beneath the heavy mantle of duty. Leading the company, the prince had ridden stiff backed and pulled in on himself, wallowing in the kind of foul mood his manservant had learned meant he should keep his head down and his mouth shut, no matter how much he wanted to point out they were running low on provisions, or that their week long scouting mission was stretching into two weeks, or that the sky was threatening a storm and maybe they should seek some kind of shelter.
At some point, Arthur and a few of the knights dismounted, with Sir Azreal crouching to point out something on the ground - traces perhaps, or maybe just a pretty flower. Merlin could never quite tell. With heads bent together, the small party of gathered knights conversed, their cloaks like bright red pedals and Arthur, as always, shining at the center. There was a low exchange of muttered words and flying hands, and, once again, Merlin found himself abandoned on the fringes as the knights parleyed in a language he didn’t understand, a lexicon of fluid finger signs punctuated by chopping gestures and meaningful nods.
So maybe, despite Merlin’s own consternation, Arthur and the knights weren’t completely gob smacked when the Saxon bandits swept down upon them with blood chilling cries, and flashing weapons.
Merlin, as a servant, didn’t merit one of Arthur’s precious destriers. His mount, a good natured, sorrel rouncy with an easy gait, was about as well versed in the art of battle as her rider. Shying from the onrush of howling warriors, she reared in alarm, and Merlin, who was too busy gawping at the attacking Saxons to adjust his grip, managed a gloriously undignified spill out of his saddle. The ass over ears tumble likely saved his life, for the Saxon javelin that flashed though the air where’d been sitting, buried itself in a tree rather than his pale flesh. Not that Merlin noticed; he was preoccupied spitting mulch out of his teeth and trying to scramble to his feet. Arthur, his brain screamed in a yammer of panic. Where’s Arthur? Have to protect Arthur!
In took him a moment to locate the prince among the melee of struggling bodies. Arthur was glorious in battle as always, caught up in the deadly dance of flashing blades and murderous intent. Feinting, striking, and blocking, he was a whirl of Pendragon colors, his surcoat a bright dazzle of crimson and gold amidst the deeper tones of the woods and the ragged homespun of the Saxon fighters.
But this was no tournament field governed by rules of chivalrous etiquette; this was a killing ground, and Merlin had other things on his mind than admiring Arthur’s fighting form.
The plan was simple.
Achieve close enough proximity to offer magical reinforcement if necessary, but retain enough distance that said assistance would go unnoticed.
Thanks to Arthur’s penchant for getting himself in over his head, Merlin was actually getting rather good at unobtrusive rescues.
Oh - and avoid getting killed in the process, the young warlock amended as one of the Saxons tried to skewer him with a spear.
A few judicious words muttered in an undertone had the barbarian tripping over his own feet and slamming face first into a tree, which knocked him cold. Merlin couldn’t help a slight smirk of triumph as he hopped over the fallen warrior. Arthur had insisted Merlin carry a sword on this excursion, but it was still strapped to his horse, which had harried off to who knew where. And even if Merlin had managed to get a hold of his blade, he was reasonably certain that armed, he would pose far more danger to himself and his comrades than to his enemies. Arthur would probably agree, despite the fact he was always dragging Merlin off to the training field under the pretext of improving his sword fighting skills. Merlin suspected the sessions had more to do with the pleasure Arthur took in bashing him about than in any real hope Merlin might improve.
He ducked and dodged around Sir Leon and his opponent, a man built like a tree and wielding a sword - paused long enough to murmur an incantation in passing - smiled in satisfaction as vines tangled around the Saxon’s feet tripping him up and sending him conveniently toppling within reach of Sir Leon’s weapon - and threw himself onto his belly, squirming into a thicket near where Arthur fought. The tangled brush provided suitable cover from which he could help or hinder as needed. Unfortunately, as Merlin quickly discovered, the thicket also seemed comprised of mostly thorn bushes.
Sometimes Merlin wondered if destiny wasn’t just having a good laugh at his expense.
Thankfully, Arthur appeared to be holding his own - was, in fact, presently on the verge of trouncing his opponent quite decisively. Still, Merlin itched to discharge his magic. He could feel it building, like something alive, pulsing under his skin. The burn of it was like a fire stoked in his belly, the taste like molten gold. It wanted to break free, to throw off the fetters, and lash out. A slight push here or a pull there, a convenient branch fallen from a tree, a root suddenly underfoot…
But the memory of Arthur’s words reined him in - fervent words about courage and valor. Once again, familiar and bitter arguments volleyed about in Merlin’s head - arguments he’d held with himself innumerable times before. Someday, in the future, Arthur would have to be told the truth, and on that day, Merlin would be called to account for every enemy defeated, every battle won, every evil destroyed. He might well save Arthur a wound now, but at what cost? By suggesting that Arthur’s greatest victories had been won by magic? That would go far beyond the cut of a blade. It would be a blow to the very essence of what made Arthur who he was, the nearly prideful sense of honor and morality that was as much a part of him as his heartbeat. Such a confession would poison the trust between them and taint the foundation of their entwined purpose. Not the most auspicious beginning to the greatest reign in history. So Merlin held back. If Arthur needed him, he would be ready, but he would leave the prince to fight his own battle - for now.
It was an apt decision for only a matter of moments later Arthur’s blade slipped past the Saxon’s guard and took the man in the belly. The barbarian folded with a surprised grunt and slid off Arthur’s sword to crumple at his feet.
Merlin let out a huff of breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and started to scramble his way out of the bushes, ignoring the rake of thorns across his skin. Most of the fighting seemed finished, with the knights making quick work of the last of their attackers. Merlin was impatient to get to Arthur and check him over for injury. He looked fit, but then Arthur generally looked fit up to the moment he collapsed from blood loss.
And that’s when the Saxon warrior stepped out from behind the concealment of an oak- a huge man, with broad shoulders and a face like a tree burr, all lumps, bumps, and crags. In his heavy hands, he hefted a fearsome, double-edged battle axe. The sight of it had Merlin choking on a whimper of terror, because Arthur didn’t see the threat. Arthur couldn’t see. His back was to the man, and as the Saxon braced himself to launch the savage weapon, panic skidded through Merlin like lightning. He could easily blast the man with magic, but a flare of blue fire erupting in the middle of the skirmish on a cloudless day would certainly draw comment; not that he would hesitate if it meant Arthur’s life.
But perhaps something more subtle…
And so, as the axe twirled through the air towards Arthur’s unprotected back, Merlin reached out and dammed the flow of time, wrapping it tightly in a bubble of power. All around him, instants became moments, moments stretched to spans, and spans to eons as time slowed to a sluggish trickle. Merlin tore himself free of the brambles and raced across the uneven ground towards the prince. The battle axe continued to tumble lazily along its trajectory, and Arthur, perhaps sensing something, began to turn, ever so slowly, rotating to look over his shoulder. Then Merlin crashed into Arthur, and time snapped back with a vengeance that left the young warlock’s head ringing with the echo. He caught a quick glimpse of Arthur, eyes wide, mouth falling open in astonishment, and they both went over in a tangle of limbs.
He imagined he could feel the breath of the axe stir the hairs on the back of his neck as it passed over them in a lethal whirl.
Then they were flat on the ground, with Arthur sputtering beneath him, and Merlin was on the verge of laughing with relief.
-but there was no time, because the Saxon was still coming
-Merlin felt Arthur tense, shoving at his shoulders
-so Merlin rolled, tumbling off and away
-and Arthur was fighting to get to his feet
-but it didn’t matter
-it didn’t matter because there was a blade sprouting from the Saxon’s chest
-and that was very strange
-and the Saxon was falling
-but Sir Leon was there behind the Saxon, pulling his sword free
-and, oh, that made sense
-and Arthur was turning towards Merlin
-and his face was open and flushed, and there was a smudge of dirt across one cheek
-and there was the beginning of a smile drawing up one corner of his mouth
- then, his eyes slid passed Merlin and the look changed
-changed to something stricken, like someone had just punched him in the gut
-and the smile crumbled and fell away leaving a tight slash
-and Merlin rolled to look
-and wished he hadn’t
Time seemed to pause for a heartbeat, but it was no trick of magic this time.
Then sight and sound all rushed back like a flood tide and Merlin gasped…
…as young Sir Edric folded to his knees, his eyes wide and frightened, the battle axe buried deep in his body. His whole left side appeared to be peeling away, like skin on overripe fruit. Merlin glimpsed the gleam of bone amidst the wreck of flesh and organ and felt bile rise in the back of his throat. Edric’s mouth worked, but the only sound was a strange whistling gurgle, and Merlin realized in horror that the young man was trying to scream.
“God’s teeth!” swore Arthur, and ran, managing to catch Edric before he hit the ground. Together, he and Leon lowered the young man gently, holding him as convulsions took him, his body arching and twisting.
Death throes, the clinical voice of Gaius murmured in Merlin’s ear.
“Shut up,” he muttered under his breath, feeling tears prickling in the corners of his eyes.
The other knights gathered, expressions a mixture of sorrow, uncertainly and resignation. Sir Osred held his arm at an awkward angle, and Sir Hunwald was limping, but it appeared Edric was their only grievous injury. At a mere eighteen summers, the young knight was popular among his peers. He’d received his knighthood early as reward for courage in a battle against ensorcelled gargoyles, and his unfailing cheerfulness and tenacity in battle had endeared him to the older, hardened knights. His loss would be keenly felt.
It didn’t take long, with Arthur and Leon holding the boy and murmuring meaningless words of comfort till the writhing stilled. The soil around them was dark with blood, the leafy groundcover tipped with scarlet as though fall had come early to this patch of forest. Somewhere a bird twittered, a cheery song, and Merlin wondered at its audacity.
The knights were a seasoned lot, used to death, but Merlin suspected he wasn’t the only one fighting back tears. Lips compressed white, pale face framed by blood-matted, ginger locks, Sir Leon cradled the boy gently for a moment, before laying him back on the forest floor. Arthur’s head dropped, a fine shudder passing though the curled shoulders. Then gathering himself, he pushed to his feet. Merlin could almost see the invisible mantle of duty settling over his shoulders, heavy as armor. Back straight, nostrils flaring, his expression a mask of professional indifference, he addressed the assembled knights. “Check the raiders. See if any survive. Gather their weapons and see if you can find anything that indicates what they were doing here. Cynefrid, help Leon get Edric onto a horse.”
“Yes, sire,” the subdued men echoed each other in quiet acknowledgement and drifted away.
“Merlin.” Arthur’s eyes were sharp on him, narrowed and shadowed by thoughts unspoken. “See if you can do anything for Sir Osred. Help him wrap that arm.”
From where he still sprawled on the ground, trembling in reaction, Merlin gazed up at the prince. “Arthur. I…” He shook his head helplessly. The words wouldn’t come. They stuck in his throat like dry bread.
I did this. I did this. I killed him. I did.
“Help Osred” Arthur repeated, then turned his back. Dismissing Merlin. Dismissing the unvoiced confession.
Merlin staggered to his feet. He felt sick, unsteady, his legs wobbling and threatening to fold as he stumbled his way towards Osred. He must have looked as wretched as he felt, for the older, round faced knight took pity on him, and settled onto a mossy log. “The bone’s broken, I imagine,” he growled, holding out his arm and trying for stoic despite the obviously painful fracture.
Merlin eyed the odd bend just above the wrist and nodded. “I imagine so.” His voice sounded rough to his ears, torn and weeping like his heart. He glanced around vaguely. “I should find something to wrap it. And a splint… but we should try to straighten it. Gaius taught me… Gaius showed me…” His fingers fumbled for the kerchief around his neck. “This should do… to wrap it, I mean.”
Sir Osred’s good hand closed around his wrist, quelling his floundering fingers. “Edric was a good lad, and tis a sore day for all of us, this loss, but Lady Death is a vexing, faithless-wench, and will not be denied her due.”
And Merlin shivered, because he had denied Lady Death. It was Arthur who was supposed to have died this day, not Edric. And if Merlin had been more attentive, perhaps no one need have died at all and Lady Death could have gone and stewed herself in brine for all he cared.
Merlin wasn’t a soldier. Unlike Arthur, he hadn’t been trained since childhood in the ways of war and combat, in the art of wielding a lance, in sword craft or in the talking of a man’s life if necessary.
He’d thought he understood what that meant.
It meant getting cuffed aside the head when he stumbled and flushed their prey into flight during a hunting party.
It meant Arthur rolling his eyes and yelling at him for holding a sword like a girl, which likely was an insult to girls, especially if they fought as well as Gwen or Morgana.
It meant watching in wide eyed half-terror as battle swirled around him in a seeming chaos of clanging weapons, flashing metal and dying screams.
But he hadn’t really understood at all. Because it meant far more than that.
It meant being able to read a field of conflict like Merlin could read a book of spells, or Gaius could read a pattern of bruising, the way in which servants read the ebb and flow of a banquet, anticipating who required a goblet freshed and who was about to ask for another slab of venison.
Edric had died because Merlin couldn’t read the language of battle. Arthur had tried to teach him, but Merlin had never really taken it seriously, seeing it as something that needn’t concern him. He had magic. What did he need with war strategies and battle tactics?
And so, he hadn’t seen what would happen to the axe once denied its intended target; he had been focused solely upon Arthur - upon saving Arthur.
But Arthur would have seen. No doubt, Arthur had seen, and knew Edric had fallen due to Merlin’s intervention. Merlin would never trade Arthur’s life for that of another, but perhaps he could have saved both - if he had understood how to read the calligraphy of combat.
He finished dealing with Osred’s arm, straightening the bone and splinting it with a small branch. “That should hold you till Gaius can take a look at it.”
“Thank you, Merlin,” the older man said, patting him on the arm, and Merlin wanted to scream, Don’t thank me. Don’t. I killed Edric.
Then Osred rose and went to see to his horse, and Merlin was left alone with his thoughts - and caustic ones they were too - chasing round and round in his head like dogs after their own tails as he stared at the ground.
He didn’t notice anyone approaching, till the log shifted slightly as someone settled beside him. A pair of boots scuffed restlessly in the dirt. Merlin knew those boots. He should, he’d polished them often enough.
He raised his eyes cautiously, glancing at Arthur, trying to read his expression. He wasn’t sure what he expected. Anger maybe, or disgust. He wasn’t prepared for the bleak, broken look that fractured Arthur’s noble features. “Arthur?”
The usually bright blue eyes were darkened by turmoil. They held his for a moment, then slid away, contemplating the trees. “I know what you are doing, Merlin, and I want you to stop.” The prince’s voice was low, but there was the hint of command there as well, the tone of someone used to being obeyed in everything, even matters which fell outside the realm of royal influence.
“Stop?” Merlin inquired faintly, for as much as he liked to believe he could anticipate Arthur, he did sometimes get it wrong, and the results were never pretty.
“You’re blaming yourself for Edric.”
Merlin nibbled at his lower lip, and ran his hands nervously up and down his thighs. “But I…”
“You did not kill him, Merlin,” Arthur said bluntly. “No matter how much you would like to take that burden on. The Saxon killed him.”
“But I was the one…”
Arthur’s hand fell heavily upon his shoulder. “I know, but if you hadn’t then I would be dead.” A beat of silent, then, softly, “Would you prefer that?”
Merlin started, stiffening in alarm, “No! No, sire, never! Never that!”
The hand gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Well then.”
Merlin’s fingers dug into the rough material of his trousers. Arthur couldn’t know that there had been a moment when Merlin might have used magic to save Arthur and Edric. That it needn’t have been one or the other, if he had known what to look for, what to see.
He ducked his head, chin sinking to his chest. “Arthur.”
The hand remained on his shoulder. The voice was gentle. “Yes?”
Merlin wished for disappointment and piercing words; this compassion felt like slow death.
Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he murmured, “I want you to teach me.”
“Teach you?” Arthur frowned, expression puzzled. “About what?”
Merlin’s head came up, his eyes finding Arthur’s, troubled yet determined. “Teach me about warfare. About battles. About strategies. Teach me to see what you see when you look at one of those battle maps.”
Teach me about killing Arthur, so I can try not to.
“Merlin, why would you…?” Arthur shook his head, seeming taken aback. “You don’t need to know about all that. You’re a servant. That’s what knights are for, defending the realm. You… you should…” He waved an arm vaguely. “…mend clothes and clean my chambers, and polish my armor and gather plants for Gaius.” He snorted dismissively. “Though I don’t think anyone has taught you how to do any of that properly either. I’d be no help there.”
“But…”
Arthur held up a hand to silence any protest and with the magnanimous air of one used to the unquestioning gratitude of his subjects declared, “I will continue my efforts to teach you to better defend yourself if you wish, though that seems a lost cause.”
“No!” The force of Merlin’s passion propelled him to his feet. “I want… I need to learn more. Please, Arthur!”
Because he did, really, didn’t he? And he wondered how this had not occurred to him before this moment. The dragon had said he was meant to aid Arthur in uniting all Albion. Surely, there would be those who would prove unwilling to bow to Arthur’s rule, and if negotiation and diplomacy did not work, then there would likely be war. If Merlin was destined to help Arthur, he would need to understand warfare.
Arthur was looking up at him strangely, with that speculative look he sometimes got when he was trying to figure Merlin out, trying to peel his layers away like an onion.
Merlin squirmed under his gaze, but finally Arthur relented with a huff, apparently no closer to understanding the puzzle that was his manservant. “Very well. If it is that important to you…
“It is.”
“I can see that.” Arthur braced his hands against his thighs and pushed himself slowly to his feet, eyes twinkling. “Then we can start by having you attend more of those council meetings you dread. You can learn a lot by listening, as well as serve the wine.” His indulgent smirk made it clear he thought this a flight of fancy on Merlin’s part, which would likely not last the duration of the first lengthy, tedious council meeting.
“Yeah… I mean, yes, sire, but surely there is something else?” The idea of hours spent on his feet while listening to dry recitations about grain counts and taxes really did not strike his fancy.
“Well, if you are truly serious about his, I could provide you with some texts of warfare. We could, perhaps… discuss them… if you wished.” He paused for a moment, expression distant with a hint of nostalgic hunger. “It’s been a while since I had a good philosophical discourse on battle tactics. Not since my tutor, Simon de Greya was caught dallying with Lady Esme and forced to flee in the middle of the night.” Then, he snorted in dismissal and shook his head. “But you likely will find them too tedious, Merlin.” He leaned closer as if indulging a secret. “You might do better with one of Morgana’s volumes of romantic poetry.”
Merlin grinned and ducked his head, deciding it would be best not to mention the rainy afternoon he and Gwen had spent giggling over just such a volume while couched in the staircase above the cellars.
“Now, fetch your horse,” Arthur directed, rolling his shoulders back and rotating his head to stretch the stiff muscles. Merlin winced at the audible crack of his neck. “We are returning to Camelot. My father will want news of these raiders.”
“Yes, sire,” Merlin acknowledged. He hadn’t missed the wistful smile that crossed Arthur’s face at the mention of debating stratagem, and as the young prince walked away, he promised himself he would pursue knowledge of the subject with the same dedication and enthusiasm with which he learned a new spell. Even if he never really mastered an understanding of the politics of war and killing, he might at least give Arthur a reason to smile. And that alone was worth the effort.
*****
Merlin had killed a man today.
A good man.
It wasn’t deliberate.
He hadn’t meant to.
He felt terrible about it.
So he would do all he could to make sure it never happened again.
FANDOM: Merlin
TITLE: Life’s Fitful Fever
CATEGORY: GEN
SETTING: Canon- Season 2ish
SUMMARY A search for a raiding party proves successful.
WARNINGS PG for violence.
Additional Notes under the cut.
Author’s Notes: In light of episode 4.12 of Merlin, I finally decided to publish this story. It’s been languishing on my hard drive for a while now, but never felt quite finished. There is just something about it that does not sit right with me, but I haven’t been able to figure out the reason for my dissatisfaction. Perhaps because it is such a short piece, and I am used to writing much longer stories. However, “The Sword in the Stone: Part One” has proven to be the motivation I needed to tidy it up and send it on its way. Much as in 4.12, this story touches upon the possible consequences of Merlin’s secret use if magic in relation to Arthur… how will his sorcery affect their relationship and the trust between them? Apparently, my conclusions on the issue are somewhat different than those of the show writers…
Make of that what you will.
*****
Life’s Fitful Fever
Merlin killed a man today.
A good man.
A knight.
Little more than a boy really. A boy who wanted nothing more than to serve his kingdom with honor.
It wasn’t deliberate.
He hadn’t meant to.
He felt terrible about it.
But…
If he had to do it again?
He would.
And that made him feel worst of all.
*****
The attack came without warning. At least that was how Merlin saw it, though perhaps he should have been expecting something since the scouting party had been sent to out to investigate reports of raiders in the area. He did wonder if Arthur hadn’t had some sense of impeding danger. The prince had been out of sorts since dawn, shoulders tense, mouth flat and tight. His words, when he did speak, had sliced through the air- icy, sharp, and flaying, holding not a glimmer of the playful warmth Merlin knew lurked beneath the heavy mantle of duty. Leading the company, the prince had ridden stiff backed and pulled in on himself, wallowing in the kind of foul mood his manservant had learned meant he should keep his head down and his mouth shut, no matter how much he wanted to point out they were running low on provisions, or that their week long scouting mission was stretching into two weeks, or that the sky was threatening a storm and maybe they should seek some kind of shelter.
At some point, Arthur and a few of the knights dismounted, with Sir Azreal crouching to point out something on the ground - traces perhaps, or maybe just a pretty flower. Merlin could never quite tell. With heads bent together, the small party of gathered knights conversed, their cloaks like bright red pedals and Arthur, as always, shining at the center. There was a low exchange of muttered words and flying hands, and, once again, Merlin found himself abandoned on the fringes as the knights parleyed in a language he didn’t understand, a lexicon of fluid finger signs punctuated by chopping gestures and meaningful nods.
So maybe, despite Merlin’s own consternation, Arthur and the knights weren’t completely gob smacked when the Saxon bandits swept down upon them with blood chilling cries, and flashing weapons.
Merlin, as a servant, didn’t merit one of Arthur’s precious destriers. His mount, a good natured, sorrel rouncy with an easy gait, was about as well versed in the art of battle as her rider. Shying from the onrush of howling warriors, she reared in alarm, and Merlin, who was too busy gawping at the attacking Saxons to adjust his grip, managed a gloriously undignified spill out of his saddle. The ass over ears tumble likely saved his life, for the Saxon javelin that flashed though the air where’d been sitting, buried itself in a tree rather than his pale flesh. Not that Merlin noticed; he was preoccupied spitting mulch out of his teeth and trying to scramble to his feet. Arthur, his brain screamed in a yammer of panic. Where’s Arthur? Have to protect Arthur!
In took him a moment to locate the prince among the melee of struggling bodies. Arthur was glorious in battle as always, caught up in the deadly dance of flashing blades and murderous intent. Feinting, striking, and blocking, he was a whirl of Pendragon colors, his surcoat a bright dazzle of crimson and gold amidst the deeper tones of the woods and the ragged homespun of the Saxon fighters.
But this was no tournament field governed by rules of chivalrous etiquette; this was a killing ground, and Merlin had other things on his mind than admiring Arthur’s fighting form.
The plan was simple.
Achieve close enough proximity to offer magical reinforcement if necessary, but retain enough distance that said assistance would go unnoticed.
Thanks to Arthur’s penchant for getting himself in over his head, Merlin was actually getting rather good at unobtrusive rescues.
Oh - and avoid getting killed in the process, the young warlock amended as one of the Saxons tried to skewer him with a spear.
A few judicious words muttered in an undertone had the barbarian tripping over his own feet and slamming face first into a tree, which knocked him cold. Merlin couldn’t help a slight smirk of triumph as he hopped over the fallen warrior. Arthur had insisted Merlin carry a sword on this excursion, but it was still strapped to his horse, which had harried off to who knew where. And even if Merlin had managed to get a hold of his blade, he was reasonably certain that armed, he would pose far more danger to himself and his comrades than to his enemies. Arthur would probably agree, despite the fact he was always dragging Merlin off to the training field under the pretext of improving his sword fighting skills. Merlin suspected the sessions had more to do with the pleasure Arthur took in bashing him about than in any real hope Merlin might improve.
He ducked and dodged around Sir Leon and his opponent, a man built like a tree and wielding a sword - paused long enough to murmur an incantation in passing - smiled in satisfaction as vines tangled around the Saxon’s feet tripping him up and sending him conveniently toppling within reach of Sir Leon’s weapon - and threw himself onto his belly, squirming into a thicket near where Arthur fought. The tangled brush provided suitable cover from which he could help or hinder as needed. Unfortunately, as Merlin quickly discovered, the thicket also seemed comprised of mostly thorn bushes.
Sometimes Merlin wondered if destiny wasn’t just having a good laugh at his expense.
Thankfully, Arthur appeared to be holding his own - was, in fact, presently on the verge of trouncing his opponent quite decisively. Still, Merlin itched to discharge his magic. He could feel it building, like something alive, pulsing under his skin. The burn of it was like a fire stoked in his belly, the taste like molten gold. It wanted to break free, to throw off the fetters, and lash out. A slight push here or a pull there, a convenient branch fallen from a tree, a root suddenly underfoot…
But the memory of Arthur’s words reined him in - fervent words about courage and valor. Once again, familiar and bitter arguments volleyed about in Merlin’s head - arguments he’d held with himself innumerable times before. Someday, in the future, Arthur would have to be told the truth, and on that day, Merlin would be called to account for every enemy defeated, every battle won, every evil destroyed. He might well save Arthur a wound now, but at what cost? By suggesting that Arthur’s greatest victories had been won by magic? That would go far beyond the cut of a blade. It would be a blow to the very essence of what made Arthur who he was, the nearly prideful sense of honor and morality that was as much a part of him as his heartbeat. Such a confession would poison the trust between them and taint the foundation of their entwined purpose. Not the most auspicious beginning to the greatest reign in history. So Merlin held back. If Arthur needed him, he would be ready, but he would leave the prince to fight his own battle - for now.
It was an apt decision for only a matter of moments later Arthur’s blade slipped past the Saxon’s guard and took the man in the belly. The barbarian folded with a surprised grunt and slid off Arthur’s sword to crumple at his feet.
Merlin let out a huff of breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and started to scramble his way out of the bushes, ignoring the rake of thorns across his skin. Most of the fighting seemed finished, with the knights making quick work of the last of their attackers. Merlin was impatient to get to Arthur and check him over for injury. He looked fit, but then Arthur generally looked fit up to the moment he collapsed from blood loss.
And that’s when the Saxon warrior stepped out from behind the concealment of an oak- a huge man, with broad shoulders and a face like a tree burr, all lumps, bumps, and crags. In his heavy hands, he hefted a fearsome, double-edged battle axe. The sight of it had Merlin choking on a whimper of terror, because Arthur didn’t see the threat. Arthur couldn’t see. His back was to the man, and as the Saxon braced himself to launch the savage weapon, panic skidded through Merlin like lightning. He could easily blast the man with magic, but a flare of blue fire erupting in the middle of the skirmish on a cloudless day would certainly draw comment; not that he would hesitate if it meant Arthur’s life.
But perhaps something more subtle…
And so, as the axe twirled through the air towards Arthur’s unprotected back, Merlin reached out and dammed the flow of time, wrapping it tightly in a bubble of power. All around him, instants became moments, moments stretched to spans, and spans to eons as time slowed to a sluggish trickle. Merlin tore himself free of the brambles and raced across the uneven ground towards the prince. The battle axe continued to tumble lazily along its trajectory, and Arthur, perhaps sensing something, began to turn, ever so slowly, rotating to look over his shoulder. Then Merlin crashed into Arthur, and time snapped back with a vengeance that left the young warlock’s head ringing with the echo. He caught a quick glimpse of Arthur, eyes wide, mouth falling open in astonishment, and they both went over in a tangle of limbs.
He imagined he could feel the breath of the axe stir the hairs on the back of his neck as it passed over them in a lethal whirl.
Then they were flat on the ground, with Arthur sputtering beneath him, and Merlin was on the verge of laughing with relief.
-but there was no time, because the Saxon was still coming
-Merlin felt Arthur tense, shoving at his shoulders
-so Merlin rolled, tumbling off and away
-and Arthur was fighting to get to his feet
-but it didn’t matter
-it didn’t matter because there was a blade sprouting from the Saxon’s chest
-and that was very strange
-and the Saxon was falling
-but Sir Leon was there behind the Saxon, pulling his sword free
-and, oh, that made sense
-and Arthur was turning towards Merlin
-and his face was open and flushed, and there was a smudge of dirt across one cheek
-and there was the beginning of a smile drawing up one corner of his mouth
- then, his eyes slid passed Merlin and the look changed
-changed to something stricken, like someone had just punched him in the gut
-and the smile crumbled and fell away leaving a tight slash
-and Merlin rolled to look
-and wished he hadn’t
Time seemed to pause for a heartbeat, but it was no trick of magic this time.
Then sight and sound all rushed back like a flood tide and Merlin gasped…
…as young Sir Edric folded to his knees, his eyes wide and frightened, the battle axe buried deep in his body. His whole left side appeared to be peeling away, like skin on overripe fruit. Merlin glimpsed the gleam of bone amidst the wreck of flesh and organ and felt bile rise in the back of his throat. Edric’s mouth worked, but the only sound was a strange whistling gurgle, and Merlin realized in horror that the young man was trying to scream.
“God’s teeth!” swore Arthur, and ran, managing to catch Edric before he hit the ground. Together, he and Leon lowered the young man gently, holding him as convulsions took him, his body arching and twisting.
Death throes, the clinical voice of Gaius murmured in Merlin’s ear.
“Shut up,” he muttered under his breath, feeling tears prickling in the corners of his eyes.
The other knights gathered, expressions a mixture of sorrow, uncertainly and resignation. Sir Osred held his arm at an awkward angle, and Sir Hunwald was limping, but it appeared Edric was their only grievous injury. At a mere eighteen summers, the young knight was popular among his peers. He’d received his knighthood early as reward for courage in a battle against ensorcelled gargoyles, and his unfailing cheerfulness and tenacity in battle had endeared him to the older, hardened knights. His loss would be keenly felt.
It didn’t take long, with Arthur and Leon holding the boy and murmuring meaningless words of comfort till the writhing stilled. The soil around them was dark with blood, the leafy groundcover tipped with scarlet as though fall had come early to this patch of forest. Somewhere a bird twittered, a cheery song, and Merlin wondered at its audacity.
The knights were a seasoned lot, used to death, but Merlin suspected he wasn’t the only one fighting back tears. Lips compressed white, pale face framed by blood-matted, ginger locks, Sir Leon cradled the boy gently for a moment, before laying him back on the forest floor. Arthur’s head dropped, a fine shudder passing though the curled shoulders. Then gathering himself, he pushed to his feet. Merlin could almost see the invisible mantle of duty settling over his shoulders, heavy as armor. Back straight, nostrils flaring, his expression a mask of professional indifference, he addressed the assembled knights. “Check the raiders. See if any survive. Gather their weapons and see if you can find anything that indicates what they were doing here. Cynefrid, help Leon get Edric onto a horse.”
“Yes, sire,” the subdued men echoed each other in quiet acknowledgement and drifted away.
“Merlin.” Arthur’s eyes were sharp on him, narrowed and shadowed by thoughts unspoken. “See if you can do anything for Sir Osred. Help him wrap that arm.”
From where he still sprawled on the ground, trembling in reaction, Merlin gazed up at the prince. “Arthur. I…” He shook his head helplessly. The words wouldn’t come. They stuck in his throat like dry bread.
I did this. I did this. I killed him. I did.
“Help Osred” Arthur repeated, then turned his back. Dismissing Merlin. Dismissing the unvoiced confession.
Merlin staggered to his feet. He felt sick, unsteady, his legs wobbling and threatening to fold as he stumbled his way towards Osred. He must have looked as wretched as he felt, for the older, round faced knight took pity on him, and settled onto a mossy log. “The bone’s broken, I imagine,” he growled, holding out his arm and trying for stoic despite the obviously painful fracture.
Merlin eyed the odd bend just above the wrist and nodded. “I imagine so.” His voice sounded rough to his ears, torn and weeping like his heart. He glanced around vaguely. “I should find something to wrap it. And a splint… but we should try to straighten it. Gaius taught me… Gaius showed me…” His fingers fumbled for the kerchief around his neck. “This should do… to wrap it, I mean.”
Sir Osred’s good hand closed around his wrist, quelling his floundering fingers. “Edric was a good lad, and tis a sore day for all of us, this loss, but Lady Death is a vexing, faithless-wench, and will not be denied her due.”
And Merlin shivered, because he had denied Lady Death. It was Arthur who was supposed to have died this day, not Edric. And if Merlin had been more attentive, perhaps no one need have died at all and Lady Death could have gone and stewed herself in brine for all he cared.
Merlin wasn’t a soldier. Unlike Arthur, he hadn’t been trained since childhood in the ways of war and combat, in the art of wielding a lance, in sword craft or in the talking of a man’s life if necessary.
He’d thought he understood what that meant.
It meant getting cuffed aside the head when he stumbled and flushed their prey into flight during a hunting party.
It meant Arthur rolling his eyes and yelling at him for holding a sword like a girl, which likely was an insult to girls, especially if they fought as well as Gwen or Morgana.
It meant watching in wide eyed half-terror as battle swirled around him in a seeming chaos of clanging weapons, flashing metal and dying screams.
But he hadn’t really understood at all. Because it meant far more than that.
It meant being able to read a field of conflict like Merlin could read a book of spells, or Gaius could read a pattern of bruising, the way in which servants read the ebb and flow of a banquet, anticipating who required a goblet freshed and who was about to ask for another slab of venison.
Edric had died because Merlin couldn’t read the language of battle. Arthur had tried to teach him, but Merlin had never really taken it seriously, seeing it as something that needn’t concern him. He had magic. What did he need with war strategies and battle tactics?
And so, he hadn’t seen what would happen to the axe once denied its intended target; he had been focused solely upon Arthur - upon saving Arthur.
But Arthur would have seen. No doubt, Arthur had seen, and knew Edric had fallen due to Merlin’s intervention. Merlin would never trade Arthur’s life for that of another, but perhaps he could have saved both - if he had understood how to read the calligraphy of combat.
He finished dealing with Osred’s arm, straightening the bone and splinting it with a small branch. “That should hold you till Gaius can take a look at it.”
“Thank you, Merlin,” the older man said, patting him on the arm, and Merlin wanted to scream, Don’t thank me. Don’t. I killed Edric.
Then Osred rose and went to see to his horse, and Merlin was left alone with his thoughts - and caustic ones they were too - chasing round and round in his head like dogs after their own tails as he stared at the ground.
He didn’t notice anyone approaching, till the log shifted slightly as someone settled beside him. A pair of boots scuffed restlessly in the dirt. Merlin knew those boots. He should, he’d polished them often enough.
He raised his eyes cautiously, glancing at Arthur, trying to read his expression. He wasn’t sure what he expected. Anger maybe, or disgust. He wasn’t prepared for the bleak, broken look that fractured Arthur’s noble features. “Arthur?”
The usually bright blue eyes were darkened by turmoil. They held his for a moment, then slid away, contemplating the trees. “I know what you are doing, Merlin, and I want you to stop.” The prince’s voice was low, but there was the hint of command there as well, the tone of someone used to being obeyed in everything, even matters which fell outside the realm of royal influence.
“Stop?” Merlin inquired faintly, for as much as he liked to believe he could anticipate Arthur, he did sometimes get it wrong, and the results were never pretty.
“You’re blaming yourself for Edric.”
Merlin nibbled at his lower lip, and ran his hands nervously up and down his thighs. “But I…”
“You did not kill him, Merlin,” Arthur said bluntly. “No matter how much you would like to take that burden on. The Saxon killed him.”
“But I was the one…”
Arthur’s hand fell heavily upon his shoulder. “I know, but if you hadn’t then I would be dead.” A beat of silent, then, softly, “Would you prefer that?”
Merlin started, stiffening in alarm, “No! No, sire, never! Never that!”
The hand gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Well then.”
Merlin’s fingers dug into the rough material of his trousers. Arthur couldn’t know that there had been a moment when Merlin might have used magic to save Arthur and Edric. That it needn’t have been one or the other, if he had known what to look for, what to see.
He ducked his head, chin sinking to his chest. “Arthur.”
The hand remained on his shoulder. The voice was gentle. “Yes?”
Merlin wished for disappointment and piercing words; this compassion felt like slow death.
Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he murmured, “I want you to teach me.”
“Teach you?” Arthur frowned, expression puzzled. “About what?”
Merlin’s head came up, his eyes finding Arthur’s, troubled yet determined. “Teach me about warfare. About battles. About strategies. Teach me to see what you see when you look at one of those battle maps.”
Teach me about killing Arthur, so I can try not to.
“Merlin, why would you…?” Arthur shook his head, seeming taken aback. “You don’t need to know about all that. You’re a servant. That’s what knights are for, defending the realm. You… you should…” He waved an arm vaguely. “…mend clothes and clean my chambers, and polish my armor and gather plants for Gaius.” He snorted dismissively. “Though I don’t think anyone has taught you how to do any of that properly either. I’d be no help there.”
“But…”
Arthur held up a hand to silence any protest and with the magnanimous air of one used to the unquestioning gratitude of his subjects declared, “I will continue my efforts to teach you to better defend yourself if you wish, though that seems a lost cause.”
“No!” The force of Merlin’s passion propelled him to his feet. “I want… I need to learn more. Please, Arthur!”
Because he did, really, didn’t he? And he wondered how this had not occurred to him before this moment. The dragon had said he was meant to aid Arthur in uniting all Albion. Surely, there would be those who would prove unwilling to bow to Arthur’s rule, and if negotiation and diplomacy did not work, then there would likely be war. If Merlin was destined to help Arthur, he would need to understand warfare.
Arthur was looking up at him strangely, with that speculative look he sometimes got when he was trying to figure Merlin out, trying to peel his layers away like an onion.
Merlin squirmed under his gaze, but finally Arthur relented with a huff, apparently no closer to understanding the puzzle that was his manservant. “Very well. If it is that important to you…
“It is.”
“I can see that.” Arthur braced his hands against his thighs and pushed himself slowly to his feet, eyes twinkling. “Then we can start by having you attend more of those council meetings you dread. You can learn a lot by listening, as well as serve the wine.” His indulgent smirk made it clear he thought this a flight of fancy on Merlin’s part, which would likely not last the duration of the first lengthy, tedious council meeting.
“Yeah… I mean, yes, sire, but surely there is something else?” The idea of hours spent on his feet while listening to dry recitations about grain counts and taxes really did not strike his fancy.
“Well, if you are truly serious about his, I could provide you with some texts of warfare. We could, perhaps… discuss them… if you wished.” He paused for a moment, expression distant with a hint of nostalgic hunger. “It’s been a while since I had a good philosophical discourse on battle tactics. Not since my tutor, Simon de Greya was caught dallying with Lady Esme and forced to flee in the middle of the night.” Then, he snorted in dismissal and shook his head. “But you likely will find them too tedious, Merlin.” He leaned closer as if indulging a secret. “You might do better with one of Morgana’s volumes of romantic poetry.”
Merlin grinned and ducked his head, deciding it would be best not to mention the rainy afternoon he and Gwen had spent giggling over just such a volume while couched in the staircase above the cellars.
“Now, fetch your horse,” Arthur directed, rolling his shoulders back and rotating his head to stretch the stiff muscles. Merlin winced at the audible crack of his neck. “We are returning to Camelot. My father will want news of these raiders.”
“Yes, sire,” Merlin acknowledged. He hadn’t missed the wistful smile that crossed Arthur’s face at the mention of debating stratagem, and as the young prince walked away, he promised himself he would pursue knowledge of the subject with the same dedication and enthusiasm with which he learned a new spell. Even if he never really mastered an understanding of the politics of war and killing, he might at least give Arthur a reason to smile. And that alone was worth the effort.
*****
Merlin had killed a man today.
A good man.
It wasn’t deliberate.
He hadn’t meant to.
He felt terrible about it.
So he would do all he could to make sure it never happened again.